Requiem and Rhapsody
by RunningQuill
Summary: "They had won the war, but everything in the room screamed of defeat." The Wizarding world is a sinking ship under the rise of a ruthless Ministry. Believing the Horcrux hunt over, Hermione Granger is proven wrong when she agrees to shelter a dead man walking. Draco Malfoy did not live. He existed. (Dramione with a slow burn, post-HP7, EWE.)
1. Prelude

**Disclaimer: All rights belong to J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros. I own nothing but the plot.**

 **Warning: If you are looking for a fluffy, light-hearted fic, this story probably isn't the right one.**

 **Rated M for death, violence, mental disorders (child and adult), psychological trauma, adult themes, eventually future sexual scenes.**

 **Rather dark Dramione with a slow burn. Characters can be OOC because of the plot.**

 **Reviews are very welcome! I'm very interested in your opinion and it is my greatest encouragement. Enjoy your read!**

* * *

" She liked broken things,

Broken people.

To her,

If there was nothing to fix,

There was nothing to love."

\- Christopher Poindexter

 **Requiem and Rhapsody**

 **Chapter 1:**

 **Prelude**

The hands of the young woman were flying over the black and white keyboard, jumping from an octave to the other. Her fingertips were stroking the white keys, fluttering up to caress the black ones briefly, in a conversation where music was responding to touches. Her eyes slid over the lines on the yellowed music sheets in front of her, more out of habit than necessity, gazing unseeingly at the black and white heads, hanging from their tiny, elegant stems, or, on the contrary, pulling them up, the swirly little flags stirring in a nonexistent breeze.

Music is easy for those who understand its language. It knows when to shout, it knows when to cry, when to murmur, and sometimes, it even knows when to fall silent and for the exact time it has to. Music is dots and lines, black and white. Whereas life is all winding roads, cliffs to jump off, dead ends to bump into, all plunged in half light, hidden in shadows, and where even black and white have their shades of gray.

The girl's gaze traveled to the bookshelf standing against the wall behind the piano. The books were neatly lined up in tight rows, some of their titles, written in gilded letters on their leather bindings or simple paperbacks, were glinting in the soft glow of a single lamp overhead. On the top shelf, a collection of picture frames was artfully displayed so the ones on the front did not hide the ones behind; they were disparate, some of them simple and wooden, others, which could have easily belonged in a teenage girl's room, were brightly colored and decorated with seashells or artificial flowers.

Some photographs were moving – waving, winking and smiling from behind their spotless glass windows; a family, which's members all extraordinarily had flaming red hair, a man, whose reddish, beaming face was framed by a shaggy mane of hair and a bushy beard, a happy couple – the purple-haired young woman clinging onto the arm of a graying man, who looked weary but was smiling and had youth in his eyes. The pictures that weren't moving all showed mostly the same couple: proud parents, holding the hands of a little bushy-haired girl with buck teeth – at a fair, in a library (the girl was barely visible behind the stacks of books in that one), or showing off a primary school diploma.

All the photographs, muggle and wizarding, didn't have a speck of dust on their frames. All but one that stood in the very middle, like frozen in time. The glass was dull from a thin layer of dust, beneath which three kids were holding hands and grinning at the invisible camera. The bushy-haired little girl – who was probably eleven or twelve years old at the time the picture was taken – stood between a small boy with messy black hair and bright green eyes that glinted behind his round glasses and a tall redhead with freckles, who had the thin frame of someone who had grown too fast. All three of them were smiling widely at the young woman sitting at the piano, their black Hogwarts robes tossed by the wind around their ankles, oblivious of the years that had passed and of what had become of themselves.

"This one is for you," whispered Hermione to one of the kids in the picture, even though it was long she had stopped playing.

She stood up and cast a glance around the dimly lit living room. It was short after dawn, and a cold, bleak morning light was filtering through the gap between the heavy curtains shielding the windows. Crossing the room, she stepped over a pile of rather skillful child's drawings lying on the floor in a stripe of bluish light and went quietly to the bathroom door. She examined her reflection in the mirror above the sink, warily at first, and then with a methodic, unforgiving eye: she pressed her fingertips to the outer corners of her eyes, pulling at the skin. She hadn't regained yet all the weight she had lost during the year she had spent wandering in the wilderness, hunting the Horcruxes. Her features looked sharper with her skin drawn over her cheekbones, and the shadows under her eyes and in the hollow of her cheeks were all the more noticeable because of the general paleness of her face.

Hermione sighed and rummaged inside a small cosmetic bag that was on the rim of the sink next to a toy plastic boat, retrieving a large make-up brush and a flat, square box containing barely used light pink powder. She applied some color to her cheeks, covered her lips with a colorless balm and pulled her wild, dark curls into a tight ponytail at the nape of her neck. She then needlessly smoothened the fabric of the black pencil skirt and the navy blue shirt she was wearing, and after one last critical glance in the mirror, walked out of the bathroom.

She crossed the living room again, snatching her purse from a chair and taking a hot thermos from the counter of the open kitchen as she walked by. She put the thermos inside her bag, dropping it on the floor of the narrow hallway that was the apartment's entrance, and slipped her feet into a pair of leather boots standing by the door. Taking a thick blue winter coat from a wall-mounted hanger, Hermione threw it around her shoulders with a long black scarf she wrapped loosely around her neck, before returning to the kitchen area.

She had almost forgotten that Nathaniel would probably wake up before her return. Taking a bottle of milk out of the fridge, she poured some into a glass for it to warm up at the ambient temperature and put it with a bowl and a spoon on the dining table standing between the kitchen counter and the stove. She then fetched a square plastic box with a piece of fruit cake inside and a jar of cereals out of a cupboard and put them next to the glass of milk. Once Nathaniel's breakfast ready, Hermione rounded the counter and tiptoed to a closed door opposite the kitchen area and next to the entrance hallway. Quietly opening it, she popped her head inside.

The soft, golden glow of a nightlight standing on the bedside table revealed what was initially intended to be something of a guest room but had been rearranged to accommodate a child. Plush toys were piled on an armchair standing in the far corner, and every inch of the wardrobe was covered with child's drawings that had been stuck to it with Spello-tape. Asleep in the middle of the large double bed, the six-year-old boy himself looked like merely a small lump under the thick red comforter with yellow and purple dragons printed on it. Quietly entering the room, Hermione went to sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake the little boy as the mattress sank under her weight.

She watched him sleep, a small smile playing on her lips. Nathaniel's chest was rising and falling steadily beneath the red flannel of his pajamas, and his little fists were clutching the fabric of the comforter. Hermione reached out, brushing some feathery strands of straight, dark brown hair from his temple. The child's eyelids moved without opening, his long, black eyelashes casting tiny shadows on his smooth, round cheeks. A small crease appeared on his pointed chin and dimples formed at the corners of his mouth as he pouted at something he was dreaming about. Leaning over him, Hermione briefly pressed her lips to his forehead, and after readjusting the comforter over him, left the room.

It scared her sometimes to realize how much the child had grown on her. Kissing him goodbye had soothed her more than music or an hour preparing herself. She forgot more and more often that she had no right to get too attached to him. Dismissing the thought, Hermione picked up her bag from the floor of the entrance and pulled out her wand. Turning on the spot, she let the familiar sensation of being sucked through a black hole shatter and dissolve her body.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

The sound of her apparating was drowned out by the ambient hubbub of conversations and the loud pounding of footsteps on the polished, dark wood floorboards. Dozens of feet were stepping over the golden lines running on the floor and delimiting the Apparition area, as wizards and witches carrying stacks of papers, boxes, and briefcases rushed into the Atrium of the Ministry. Others joined them, dusting their robes and walking out of the row of gilded fireplaces set into the paneled wall on the left side of the vast hall, emerald green flames bursting high to the peacock blue ceiling and making its moving golden symbols shine.

Hermione mingled with the crowd, her field of vision becoming a forest of various hats and shoulders wrapped in thick scarves and clad in a disparate array of winter cloaks and Muggle coats. As it moved further toward the heart of the Atrium, the human tide suddenly split like a wave crashing on a breakwater, and as people continued on their way on either side, Hermione stopped, gazing at the edge of the wall towering over them and that had been erected in the middle of the Atrium, cutting it in two.

It ran all the way from the middle of the hall to the Fountain of Magical Brethren on its other end, a few feet taller than the people walking around it. Hundreds of names and dates, Muggles and wizards alike, were engraved in golden characters on its black marble surface on both sides of it, reminding them of the heavy cost of the war, fueling their confidence that weakness and leniency weren't an option now that it was over. As if they could ever forget. Voices were becoming hushed and footsteps slowed down as people walked on either side of the memorial, eying it out of the corner of their eye or stopping and bowing their heads, as though a weight had been dropped onto their shoulders. Flowers and rosettes were floating in midair in some places. Notes and pictures had been stuck to the marble next to many names, their now dead subjects smiling and waving sadly at the passers-by. There were even ordinary ones that weren't moving, placed there for Muggle friends and relatives.

Forcing herself to tear her feet off the ground, Hermione slowly moved to the side, gazing unseeingly at the familiar names and faces that turned into a blur inside her suddenly frozen mind. By the time she reached the fountain, she had to wipe her hands that were beading with cold sweat inside her pockets. Swallowing hard, she accelerated her pace, nearly running across the remaining distance to the golden gates of the lifts at the end of the Atrium. Once her wand registered at the security stand, she stood in line, waiting for a free cabin, as witches and wizards poured in and out of the elevators, her fists clenched, nails digging into her palms, and her face set resolutely.

Finally, an empty lift slid smoothly out of the depths of the Ministry and opened its gates to the line Hermione was standing in. She moved against the far wall of the cabin, as half a dozen people walked in by her side, a few purple interdepartmental memos rustling softly overhead. People exited and entered the cabin as it made its way deeper and deeper into the underground levels of the Ministry, until Hermione and an austere-looking, middle-aged witch in black robes, with a tight bun of graying hair at the back of her head, were the only ones left inside.

"Level ten. Wizengamot Courtrooms one to twelve. Execution rooms one to five.", announced a cool, disembodied voice as the gates of the elevator slid apart, opening on a narrow hallway with black-tiled walls and floor, stretching out of sight and lit by torches that glowed with an eerie bluish light.

The severe-looking witch strode out of the cabin, the sound of her footsteps against the stone floor echoing loudly off the walls. Hermione, however, remained rooted to the spot, cold nausea kicking in her stomach as she watched the woman walk away. She finally resolved to move, passing closed doors that didn't let through even the faintest of sounds. This level of the Ministry was a veritable maze, and when she finally stopped before a door indicating Courtroom number 10, the footsteps of the other witch had long faded in the distance. Hermione pushed the doorknob and entered.

The benches rising in levels around the room suddenly made her feel very small. The young woman shuddered involuntarily; the stone walls of the dungeon were seeping with a coldness that pierced to the very mind and soul, and the high, vaulted ceiling that was barely visible in the shadows overhead weighed down on her. Instead of taking off her coat and scarf, Hermione hugged them tighter to her, almost as to shield herself from her surroundings while she looked around. Even though she was early, everybody else was apparently already there.

On the benches opposite her and the door, on the other side of a wide circular space, in the middle of which stood a single empty chair, were sitting a good fifty people in plum-colored robes and with a silver W embroidered on their chests. Here they were, all of them; the men and women, who had promised to lead the Wizarding world out of the abyss it had plunged into after the war, to build a safer, stronger community. At the time, after Fudge's disastrous mistakes, Scrimgeour's blind, reckless and short-lived rule, Voldemort's dreadful reign from the shadows, having a large Committee of fifty members to rule the Wizarding Britain rather than taking risks with one-way policies of a single leader had seemed a good idea to the paranoia-stricken Wizarding community. They were promising change, they were promising to strike hard, and within months, decrees after decrees had been passed, the List had been released, the courtrooms were constantly busy, and a new web of death rows had expanded the deepest level of the Ministry with something worse than death waiting at the end.

They were now whispering gravely, shuffling stacks of papers, and only the Chief Warlock – a tall, slim, middle-aged man with spectacles, a long mane of salt and pepper hair and gnarled hands, who was sitting at the very front – was silent. The eyes of a bald, dark-skinned man, sitting on his left, fell upon Hermione as she paused in the doorway, and he gave her an almost imperceptible nod. She answered Kingsley with a smile that looked more like a rictus and ran her gaze over the rest of the assembly. On the benches on her left sat a hundred people, civilians and Ministry officials mingled. She recognized some of them; former schoolmates and their families, colleagues and officials she had met in the corridors of the Ministry, familiar faces from the pages of wizarding newspapers. The tension was almost crackling in the air around them as they talked to each other in low, impatient voices. Some of them paused when they noticed Hermione; those who knew her personally gave her sympathetic looks, but most just stared at her with curiosity.

Her shoulders hunching under their gazes, she moved to the benches on her right; there were a lot fewer people there, twenty at most, and they were sitting stiffly, their faces – frozen masks. Hermione made her way to a cluster of red-haired heads, squeezing Mrs. Weasley's hands as she went by, and took place on the empty seat between Ginny and Percy. The young man was squirming on his spot, wiping needlessly his horn-rimmed glasses over and over again. Ginny, on the other hand, was very still and gazing straight ahead, tight-lipped and chalk-white beneath her freckles. Hermione took one of her cold hands from her lap and held it firmly.

"He is late," muttered Ginny through gritted teeth.

Hermione cast a glance at the empty space on the bench, on the other side of the red-haired girl, and her heart clenched.

"He is going to come," she assured in a low voice. "It's his best friend."

Ginny did not answer. A few more people arrived and took their places, the conversations started to die out, and Chief Warlock Fawley shifted in his high-backed chair. But the seat next to Ginny remained empty, and the girl withdrew her hand from Hermione's and pressed it between her thighs to hide the trembling.

"The trial is ready to begin," announced Fawley's loud voice, dry like sandpaper, each word snapping like a whip.

Silence fell upon the courtroom at once, heavy as lead. All the faces turned to the door of the dungeon, through which Hermione had walked in half an hour earlier, and after a short moment, it slowly swung on its hinges. The temperature in the room suddenly seemed to drop several degrees, and Hermione felt her insides churn with a renewed sickness. A tall man in chains, wearing ragged Azkaban robes, was brought inside, his broad yet bony shoulders held by the putrid hands of two hooded creatures gliding inches above the ground on each side of him, the despair and otherworldly coldness that radiated off them contaminating the entire courtroom.

Hermione closed her eyes, avoiding even to breathe as she waited for the Dementors to bring the prisoner to the chair in the middle of the room and leave. She opened her eyes only when she heard the clanking of chains winding around the man and the door of the dungeon bang shut. Ginny had slipped her hand back into hers. The silence was broken as warmth returned in the air. Whispers ran around the room like hisses of angry snakes as everybody watched the prisoner, sorrow, disgust, and hatred etched on every face.

For a long moment, he remained slumped on the chair, his head hanging low and only offering the sight of his greasy, dirty blond hair. Then, he slowly raised his head, revealing a sallow, starved face with hollow cheeks and a sharply outlined square jaw. Even his baby blue eyes looked dull and lifeless. Fawley considered him with an austere expression from his seat, a few feet above the ground.

Feeling as though her heart could leap out of her chest, Hermione cast a glance at the rest of the Weasleys: Arthur had wrapped an arm around his wife, Ginny was still staring straight ahead, Percy had stopped cleaning his glasses. On the bench behind them, Bill, Fleur, Charlie, and George sat like frozen. They all looked as though they were about to crumble but their faces were hard as stone. A few benches up on their left, Hermione spotted Dean Thomas; the dark-skinned young man was sitting alone and looked livid. Hermione slowly turned back to the Wizengamot.

"Thorfinn Rowle," spoke Fawley in a curt, cutting voice, "you have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law so we may pass judgment on you for your crimes. We have heard evidence against you. You stand accused of your affiliation to Tom Marvolo Riddle, the man who called himself Lord Voldemort, and your involvement in Death Eater activities. You are further accused of the use of all three Unforgivable Curses, the Killing Curse having caused the deaths of all five members of a Muggle family – Rosa, Ally, Jonathan and their parents Marc and Dora Bennett, of the Muggle spouses Jim and Lucy Cooper, of the wizard Florean Fortescue, of the wizard and Death Eater Garrick Gibbon, of the Muggle David Hughes, of the Muggle spouses Leila and Rick Thomas, of the wizard Ronald Weasley."

Fawley did not raise his voice, but the name boomed in Hermione's head like a gunshot and petrified her brain. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered whether his mother and stepfather's names had sounded so loud to Dean. Her knuckles were white as she squeezed Ginny's hand, and the strength of the girl's grip matched hers. Then, in the deafening noise of her own blood pumping in her ears and the cold numbness washing over her body, she was like pulled out of water and was breathing again. The Chief Warlock was still speaking.

"I now ask the jury to raise their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes deserve the ultimate penalty."

Hermione looked to her left and exchanged a glance with Percy. They knew only too well the nature of the trials that had been taking place ever since the end of the war, having witnessed most of them, be it on the benches of the public or their work for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement bringing them on the ones of the Law Council itself as clerks or assistants. It was all a farce, a masquerade. The issue was long written. The Ministry showed no mercy to anybody with the shadow of the Dark Mark on their arm, eradicating them like a disease.

It struck Hermione how little affected the chained man was by the prospect of his upcoming sentence. How unconcerned most of them had seemed to be – the former Death Eaters – especially the ones of Voldemort's inner circle. She would have called it defiance. But it wasn't that. Defiance was a state of mind, something akin to emotion. And she couldn't read anything on their faces or in their posture, as though all human fears, anger and even the mere instinct of survival were foreign to them. They were like away, detached from everything. Could the downfall of their master have destroyed all their faith in their own existence?

A forest of hands was rising to the stone ceiling. People around the room were moving like a stormy sea. Hermione watched, like mesmerized, the prisoner. He didn't even flinch when Fawley delivered the sentence.

"The sentence is to be carried out immediately," sounded his loud, dry voice over the murmurs of the crowd. "All those with an authorization to access the execution room are to be there within half an hour."

There was something so expeditious, so careless of the human life, so very wrong in the way all this was done. But for once, Hermione didn't care, and it only fueled the dull dread she felt deep within herself. Everything was so very wrong. Her arm tucked under Ginny's, she waited for the courtroom to empty, and she and the Weasleys were the last of the audience to exit, the Wizengamot members leaving by a back door behind their benches, and Rowle remaining chained to his chair to be taken to the execution room by the Dementors.

As they walked down the cold, dim corridors, pushing further into the meanders of the deepest level of the Ministry, Hermione couldn't prevent her thoughts from wandering to the condemned man, led to his fate by the Dementors along a hidden, parallel passageway. She imagined him counting his steps, his last conscious heartbeats, and soon, her own strides were becoming laborious, reluctant, unwittingly slowing down. But Ginny's pace wasn't wavering, and she was dragging her forward, oblivious to Hermione's clammy hands and ashen face as nausea twisted and knotted her stomach with renewed force.

The massive black door of the execution room was looming at the end of another hallway, and the young woman watched it inch closer with eyes filled with dread until it opened and swallowed them one by one, before locking behind them. Snapping out of her daze, Mrs. Weasley turned to Ginny and opened her mouth, but her daughter cut her off before she could say a word.

"I stay," she hammered coldly, and Molly turned away, sadness marring briefly her features before her face shut again.

Five rows of hard, high-backed seats were rising in levels inside the dark, square room, facing a translucent glass wall that was shimmering faintly from the Protective Charms cast on it. The light of a fox Patronus pacing along it and conjured by an Auror, who was standing in the far corner, bathed the seats in an eerie glow and cast spidery shadows on the walls. As they all settled in the front row, Hermione caught a glimpse of the only other person to have demanded to watch the execution; of Dean, who was sitting in the middle of the back row, she could only see a black silhouette with his eyes glinting slightly as he stared at the glass wall. Hermione looked as well, fearing what she would see on the other side of the enchanted glass.

It was the first execution she was attending, not having done it even for Remus and Tonks, not even for Fred. But for Ron, she would do it. She would watch every bit of it, even if it had to scar her brain forever. The room on the other side was smaller and had only one iron chair in its very middle, with chains hanging from its back and its armrests, exactly like in the courtroom. It was facing away so the people watching from the dark room saw the profile of the prisoner. An iron, floor to ceiling door opened in the far wall. Hermione stared with an almost painful intensity, waiting for it to swing on its hinges to let in the prisoner and its terrible executioner.

So when the door on the left side of their room opened suddenly, she started. Chief Warlock Fawley, Shacklebolt and a dozen of Wizengamot members made their way inside the room and took their seats in the second and third rows of chairs. Kingsley leaned forward briefly to squeeze Arthur's shoulder and pat Molly's back. His lips curled into a sad smile when he met Hermione's gaze but she quickly turned away. The policies he had been supporting due to his position within the Wizengamot and hence the new Ruling Committee since the end of the War, a little less than nine months earlier, led her to question more and more often this man, who had once been one of Dumbledore's most trusted allies.

A metallic noise brought her back to reality abruptly. Hermione drew a sharp breath, and then, she wasn't feeling any life in her body at all: her senses sharpened at once, but the beating of her heart, the air in her lungs, the hairs rising on her forearms beneath the fabric of her shirt – every sensation vanished. Thorfinn Rowle was brought inside the room beyond the glass by two burly Aurors in black robes and heavy leather boots. They pushed him onto the iron chair, and as the chains snaked around his arms and torso, binding him to it, his face was as blank as it had been in the courtroom. Once they made sure that he was tightly secured to the chair, the Aurors left the room.

Suddenly feeling the first shivers of a panic attack run up and down her spine, Hermione averted her gaze, her eyes landing everywhere except on the condemned man in front of her. She couldn't bring herself to feel any pity for him, but rather a nameless aversion as to what was about to happen. Mrs. Weasley, on the contrary, watched him unblinkingly, almost straining against her husband's arms as she leaned toward the glass. There was something incredibly fierce and raw in the usually gentle gaze of the short, plump woman, contrasting with her generally harmless appearance, with her purple, knitted beret and her tartan cloak on top of her brown cardigan. And Hermione was suddenly convinced that should the Dementor fail to its task for some reason, Mrs. Weasley would have no qualms whatsoever about ripping apart with her bare hands the man who had murdered her son.

But the creature was already gliding inside the room, the enchanted glass panel and the silvery fox shielding them all from the icy despair it was exhaling. Hermione forced her gaze to remain on the other room but it refused to focus on the scene. Her vision was blurred, obscured by the images flashing behind her eyelids when she blinked, swimming to the surface from the darkest corners of her memory; Sirius and Harry writhing on the opposite shore of the Black Lake as Dementors came swarming hungrily over them… Black shadows zooming in the air as they feasted on every living soul within their reach, while the battle raged all around in the ruins of Hogwarts… It all swirled before her eyes, while the scene on the other side of the glass looked strangely slow.

In the flickering light of the other room and the feeble glow of the enchanted window and the Patronus, she could see the Dementor circle slowly around Rowle, like a giant, monstrous vulture, while it darted its hooded, skeletal head in every direction. Her eyes half closed, Hermione had, however, the vivid picture of the gaping hole it had for a mouth imprinted on her retina. Time was like frozen while she prayed for it to be over, trying with all her strength to swallow down the bile rising from her stomach. A choked whimper on her left told her that Ginny's composure was cracking as well.

 _Red hair and freckles_. _Ron_.

Locking her jaws together, Hermione opened her eyes wide. For a fleeting second, she had the crazy impression that the blind creature was unable to find its victim. But then, the scabbed, glistening hands reached out and cupped Rowle's face almost lovingly. The man's head fell back limply, like one of a complying puppet, offering his staid face to the avid mouth of the Dementor, which started sucking in the air with a rattling sound they couldn't hear. A thin, tenuous, silvery wisp was escaping Rowle's convulsing body through his parted lips.

Confusion flitted through Hermione's mind. She had seen souls being sucked out, and this one had something odd about it. But maybe in the darkness of the night, in the chaos of the battle, which exacerbated her senses and overwhelmed her, she had only imagined them to be brighter, the strange, fluid wisps – thicker. The Dementor, however, seemed to find it not enough as well. Hermione could almost hear it hiss furiously as it flew around Rowle's slumped body – now merely an empty shell. Aurors were rushing inside the room, their wands raised as their Patronuses – a wolf and a falcon – chased the creature out. Hermione stared dumbly at the poor shadow of a human being chained to the chair, and suddenly, something inside of her snapped.

It was over. Ron was gone, and even during his burial, three days after the final battle, the finality of his death hadn't hit her as hard as it did now, with his murderer meeting his fate. The door of the room banged loudly, and Dean yelling echoed somewhere outside. Hermione gasped for air, suffocating. She stood up, looking around wildly, searching for something, anything. Molly was sobbing uncontrollably, collapsed against her husband. Hermione turned to Ginny and recoiled immediately under her desperate, crazed gaze. White as a ghost, the girl was shaking all over, her hands balled into fists. Tears were pouring out of her eyes and streaking down her taut cheeks.

"He didn't come!" she spat and stormed out of the room, her footsteps pounding angrily away.

And suddenly, Hermione couldn't bear to stay there anymore. Charlie and George were still frozen on their seats. Percy looked like a frightened boy in the shape of a grown man. Bill and Fleur were embracing the weeping, crumbling Mrs. Weasley; Arthur had released her to sit, his face buried in his hands. They had won the war and everything in this room screamed of defeat. Stumbling, Hermione exited the room, and once in the hallway, broke into a run.

She barely made it to the restroom next to the elevators at the entrance of the level, and there, sickness bent her in half. She retched all the contents of her stomach, which were mostly bile as she didn't eat anything in the morning. She kept dry-heaving because of the bitter, acid taste that burnt her throat and tongue, before finally resting her damp forehead against the cool tiles of the wall. When her nausea receded to a bearable level, Hermione crawled out of the cabin and washed her face at the sink with cold water, thoroughly rinsing her mouth. She looked at herself in the mirror, her hands clutching the rim of the sink.

It was over. It was over, and she had to go. Like in a daze, she left the restroom and took a lift to the ground floor, barely paying attention when it stopped to take in other passengers. The hustle and bustle in the Atrium had calmed down a little now that the workday had begun and most of the employees had returned to their posts. Hermione walked to a large marble counter not far from the lifts and handed a few Knuts to the smiling young witch in burgundy robes, who was standing behind.

"I need to send an owl," she muttered, rummaging inside her handbag.

The witch nodded, waiting for her to give her the letter. Hermione retrieved a notebook and a muggle pen and tore out a page to scribble three words: " _Dementor's Kiss. – Hermione_." She hesitated to write something else, but Ginny's angry, distraught face floated in her mind, and she herself felt a painful pang of resentment.

"To whom?" enquired the witch politely when she gave her the piece of paper.

The fact that a bird would know where to find him, whereas she, his best friend, didn't have the slightest idea, tasted sour.

"Harry Potter," answered Hermione flatly. "Thank you."

As soon as the witch turned around to disappear in the back-room, she regretted not having written anything more, and guilt crept inside her heart. But then, he wasn't writing either. Her throat was still burning from her vomiting, her insides were churning from hunger, and she felt dizzy. She needed sugar and fresh air or she would collapse. Hermione glanced at her watch; it was nearly ten in the morning; Nat would only be waking up now and his breakfast was ready. She had a little less than an hour to clear her thoughts, and it was best the little boy didn't see her in such an erratic state of mind. Readying her wand, she walked to the Apparition Point.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

The icy air soothed her throat and most importantly her nerves as Hermione walked down the Diagon Alley. Her eyes were prickling from the cold and she was squeezing between her bluish fingers her thermos of coffee she had magically warmed up. She had apparated right in front of the stoop of Gringotts so she could have the whole winding street to go down, before exiting to the Muggle world through the _Leaky Cauldron_. But as she passed the familiar shops and buildings, a bitter nostalgia was gnawing at her.

The Diagon Alley was merely a pale shadow of the lively avenue it used to be before the war. It hadn't been difficult to magically refurbish the vandalized buildings. The broken windows had been fixed, the unhinged doors mended, the burnt, damaged walls repaired. The storefronts were as shiny as ever, but for many of them, there were no more owners to run them – the windows staying dark and dust covering the unsold wares. The opened ones seemed almost just as lifeless, the rare clients not lingering inside, the curfew, the raids and the lurking threat of Death Eaters still too vivid in their memory. Hermione could see it in their eyes as witches and wizards looked nervously over their shoulders, as mothers clutched firmly the hands of their children, and everyone walked with small, quick steps, their shoulders hunching once outside in the street.

There were far fewer people too, and not only because of the heavy death toll of the war. Many had left the British Isles, gone for other European countries or fleeing to the other side of the ocean, to the American continent. They were running away from the memories, the front pages of the newspapers, the posters on the walls and the memorials in their workplaces; they didn't want to remember the deadly darkness that had shattered the Wizarding World.

Hermione wondered what life looked like at Hogwarts; the school was half-deserted she knew. Not many had come back, even fewer had accepted their first letter, their parents preferring to send them to Ilvermorny or Beauxbatons. She couldn't blame them; she had been unable to bring herself to return to Hogwarts either, not now that the memories of everything – _everyone_ – that was gone haunted every corner. The Ministry had accepted her in a traineeship program without any further requirements regarding her studies, but she had nonetheless asked Professor McGonagall for the permission to take her NEWTs partly by correspondence, poring over seventh-grade textbooks whenever she could.

Hermione paused, distracted by the colorful front of another familiar yet closed shop. They had all helped George to rebuild the partly destroyed _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes_ , and Charlie had even offered to stay and help him for the time he needed to find new staff. But the day of the re-opening, George had looked at the shop sign, waved his wand and turned back on his heels. Now it read _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes_ and dust was forming a thin layer over the Nose-Biting Teacups, the Skiving Snackboxes, the Fanged Frisbees, and all the weird, colorful bric-a-brac displayed in the shop window. Hermione turned away, sipping her coffee and shivering from the cold.

Even though it wasn't freezing, the winter had been until then exceptionally cold, and the end of January had been drowned in a quasi-continuous, dreary drizzle, with a forceful wind blowing over the slate roofs of London. Hermione stepped carefully on the slippery cobblestones of the Diagon Alley, feeling guilt-stricken from the soles of her thick leather boots to the tips of her fingers, holding her hot thermos, as she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye the dark forms crouching in the corners. Witches and wizards, young and old, hugging their filthy cloaks and coats to them as they sat on the wet sidewalk or the dirty stoops of the houses, their lips chapped from the cold, their faces grayish, emaciated, having lost their homes and their wands, be it because of the Death Eaters or because they were suspected of being affiliated to the latter.

Shoving her thermos back inside her bag, Hermione accelerated her pace, striding down the second half of the Diagon Alley. This walk had certainly cleared her thoughts; she had absolutely no right to lament over her life. After passing through the magical brick wall that hid the entrance to the Diagon Alley, she crossed the half-empty _Leaky Cauldron_ and exited on the muggle side of the pub. She was immediately assailed by the noises of the traffic, the hooting of car horns, the screeching of brakes, the roar of motors, and swallowed by the dense crowd pressing on the sidewalk. The contrast between the two worlds couldn't have been sharper, mused Hermione, contemplating the broad muggle avenues.

From there, she wasn't far from home, having chosen a flat at the boundary between Muggle and Wizarding London. In the crush, she stumbled on the outstretched leg of a homeless man, who was sitting between the waste containers that surrounded the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron.

"I'm sorry," she muttered apologetically before starting up the street.

The man's head shot up, his pale, sunken eyes peering after her from under the hood he had drawn over his forehead. He stared, motionless, at her back as she walked away, hidden from time to time by the passers-by around her, oblivious to the gaze following her. The man stood up heavily, grabbing at the wall with his bony, dirty hands to steady himself on his feet. He readjusted the hood so his face was still hidden in the shadows, and sticking his hands into the pockets of his long, black coat that hung miserably off his shoulders, edged along the walls after her.

Hermione was walking quickly, impatient to get back to the little boy, who had probably woken up and was waiting for her at home. She turned several corners, leaving the main roads for neat little streets lined with plane trees and Victorian buildings, not noticing the tall, male figure still following her. She went up the front steps of one of the houses and stopped before the door, looking inside her bag for her keys. She pushed the heavy door panel and entered the small entrance hall of the building to the familiar smell of bleach coming from the recently washed stairs with a wrought iron handrail and that zigzagged up the floors.

Hermione paused, her back turned to the door as she searched inside her bag again, this time for the key of the Muggle mailboxes on her right. She felt a gush of icy air that bit the skin of her legs despite the thick tights she was wearing under her skirt, and the entrance door that hadn't completely closed creaked behind her. With a metallic clanking, the keys fell onto the tiled floor, and her head was smacked against the wall. Large hands grabbed her by her shoulders and spun her around, slamming her back against the door that banged shut under the shock. Hermione gasped, tiny white lights popping in the blackness suddenly obscuring her vision, all breath knocked out of her lungs as the doorknob poked painfully into her ribs.

A rough hand curled around her throat, holding her in place, and the young woman instinctively brought her hands up to try and pry it away while her knee shot up to meet the crotch of her assailant. A hoarse groan followed, the hand let go of her throat and the man staggered away. Before her vision even came back fully into focus, Hermione plunged to her fallen bag, snatched it from the floor and scampered into the corner. Her fingers closed convulsively around her wand she pointed at the man through the leather of the bag. He was bent in half in the middle of the entrance hall, his hands on his knees and his breath wheezing in pain. Of him she could only see the coat – way too large for his thin frame and with dirt smeared all over it – his tattered black trousers and worn-out shoes. His head was hidden beneath his hood. Hermione remained rooted to the spot, adrenaline pumping in her veins and her heart pounding wildly. She took out her wand fully, too frightened to care whether he was a Muggle or not. The man caught her movement and flinched.

"Wait… Wait…" rasped out a vaguely familiar voice she failed however to recognize.

He took a step back, tripped and fell to his knees. His hood slid off his head, revealing dirty, matted, white-blond hair that fell across his forehead and over his pale gray eyes that had a demented look in them. An equally dirty, blond growth was eating the lower half of his face.

"Wait… You have to help me…" he sputtered hoarsely. "Granger, you have to help me…"

Horrorstruck, Hermione stared into his face. Beneath all the grayish dirt streaking his pale skin and all the hair, one could still guess the outline of young, aristocratic features, even though rather emaciated. The quicksilver eyes, them, were unmistakable. Recognition flashed across Hermione's face.

"Oh my God…" she breathed, petrified.

"Don't let them… Don't let them take what's left…" he was continuing madly, casting around the wild looks of a cornered animal. "Granger, you have to help me…"

Still on his knees, he slumped further, his palms on the floor. Horror, confusion, fear, and disgust battling to take over her face, Hermione watched as he crawled across the distance between them and his hands clung onto the hem of her coat. She gasped and recoiled, her back hitting the wall, her wand leveled at his face.

"Malfoy!" she shrieked.

"Please…"

Merely a whisper. Something in his voice, broken and hoarse from the cold, was liquefying her brain. Her reason was screaming in the back of her mind: ' _Call the Aurors! He is on the List! He is a fugitive! You have to hand him over to the Ministry!_ ' He was a Death Eater. The Ministry was supposed to deliver his sentence as soon as they would get their hands on him. In the storm of thoughts raging inside her head, a picture emerged, standing out sharp and clear and impossible to ignore. The empty shell of a man chained to an iron chair after the Dementor's Kiss. Her lips formed the words before her brain could thoroughly process them.

"Move. Up the stairs. Slowly."

A long shudder shook Malfoy's whole body and he let out a ragged breath of relief. Letting go of her, he stood up clumsily and moved to the staircase at the other end of the hall, taking slow, measured steps and watching her wand out of the corner of his eye. Like in a daze, Hermione followed a few steps behind, her wand aimed between his shoulder blades. Her mind was frozen, failing to understand what she was doing, and even more to decide what she was going to do next. They climbed the stairs with an excruciating slowness. Malfoy was gripping the handrail with both hands as though he was about to fall. Hermione thought she saw him sway dangerously several times and prepared to jump sideways in case he was going to fall down the stairs. To her greatest relief, they didn't run into any of her neighbors, and when they reached the landing of the fourth and last floor, her plan was ready.

"Stop," she snapped.

She was surprised to see him obey immediately. But then, she had a wand, and he could barely stand upright, the stairs having apparently drained him of what little strength he had. He leaned against the wall, his eyes glinting dully in their sunken sockets as he watched her go around him, staying as far as she could – and to the only door of the landing. Hermione's nose crinkled unwittingly – in this smaller space, the air was thick with the awful stench of rot and unwashed human body that floated around Malfoy.

"Sit," she ordered.

The young man slid down the wall and onto the floor.

" _Petrificus totalus_ ," muttered Hermione and his body became rigid. "I'm not calling the Aurors," she added coolly, answering the mad panic that flashed in his eyes. "But you'll have to wait."

She unlocked the door and opened it just a crack to slip inside, before quickly closing it. She dropped her bag onto the floor, took off her coat and scarf, and forcing her lips to form a calm, warm smile, went to the open kitchen. Nathaniel was sitting at the table behind the counter and didn't look up when she moved closer. The piece of fruit cake had disappeared from the plastic box and his glass of milk was empty. The little boy was now focused on eating the chocolate-coated cornflakes he was taking one by one out of their jar to put them on a spoon and eat them one at a time.

Hermione squatted next to his chair and ran a hand through his soft hair, before rubbing small circles on his back. He had changed his flannel pajamas for a pair of denim dungarees and a beige knitted sweater. His big, hazel eyes were still fixed on his spoon but his face split into a wide smile and he leaned into her touch.

"I haven't been too long?" she asked softly.

The little boy shook his head, carefully chewing a cornflake.

"We are having a guest," said Hermione in a low, soothing voice.

The child reached for the jar of cereals and took another cornflake.

"Lulu?" he mouthed before bringing the spoon to his lips.

"No, not Lulu. Lulu is coming later. You don't know him."

She watched Nathaniel anxiously. He paused, before shaking his head, a crease appearing between his small eyebrows. Hermione sighed and closed her eyes briefly. _Bloody Malfoy!_

"I know you don't like meeting strangers," she continued softly. "That's why I wanted to ask you if you could go to your room and prepare the beautiful drawings you made for Lulu while I'm busy with him? Would you do that?"

The little boy seemed to consider the question for a moment, then slid from his chair, and staring at the tip of his shoes, went to pick up the drawings scattered on the floor of the living-room. With a frown of concern, Hermione watched him trot to his room and close the door, still without looking at her. Cursing under her breath, she strode to her own room; Malfoy had to stay as far as possible from the child. The only guest room of the apartment being occupied by Nathaniel, her own bedroom became the only place where she would have to keep Malfoy for the moment. Trying not to think that it was soon going to be invaded by the presence of an extremely filthy, very probably insane, former Death Eater on the run, she walked around the neat room, putting up various wards and sound-proofing it. When she was done, she went back to the apartment door, making sure that Nathaniel was still in his room, and opened it wide, looking down at Malfoy's seated, motionless form.

"Come in," she commanded, flicking her wand to free him from the Body-Bind Curse. "Don't say a word until I allow you to."

Malfoy stood up unsteadily and went inside the apartment, his eyes scanning warily every corner as though he expected an army of Aurors to surround him. Her wand pointed at him, Hermione locked the door behind them and silently beckoned him to her room. He had the decency to go around the carpets, and once in her bedroom, stopped in the empty space between her bed and the wardrobe. Closing the door, Hermione went to stand on the other side of the bed. For a long moment, she just watched him, the idea that Draco Malfoy was in her room slowly sinking in her mind. She had the impression that a deadly weight was crashing down on her, all the emotions she had been bottling up since she had woken up this morning threatening to burst out with another surge of nausea.

Malfoy was looking around the room, blinking slowly, and the little Hermione could see of his face was devoid of expression. She noticed that his hands were trembling spasmodically, probably from the cold and exhaustion and nervous tension all at once, and she felt a pang of pity. She refused however to soften before knowing the reason of his presence. She took a deep breath.

"Speak," she said, her voice coming out more high-pitched than expected. "What do you want from me?"

Malfoy's gaze focused on her. And then he collapsed, losing consciousness.

* * *

 **A/N: I apologize if you find any grammar/spelling/vocabulary mistakes. English is not my first language.**


	2. Broken strings

**Chapter 2:**

 **Broken strings**

Hermione stared at the wreck of a human being collapsed on the floor at her feet in a heap of tattered clothes that reeked of garbage and sweat. She considered for a moment to rennervate him to give him the food and health care he so obviously needed. But then, she felt that she might faint as well, if she didn't just sit down for a minute and sort out the storm raging beneath her skull. Besides, she had to take care of Nathaniel. Hermione conjured a glass out of thin air and magically filled it with water, before placing it on the bedside table, at the foot of which Malfoy's head was laying. Stepping over his legs, she exited the room and carefully charmed the door locked, before dragging her feet to the sofa and slumping down on it, her elbows on her knees while she massaged her temples with her fingertips.

Confusing questions mingled with frozen images of the events that had happened since the last time she had seen Malfoy were flashing in her mind. Nearly nine months had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts; enough for those who hoped that the end of the war would be the end of death and destruction to realize that they were deeply mistaken. Death was everywhere. It was in the long columns of names and dates on the pages of _the Daily Prophet_. It was in the new death rows and execution rooms built on the deepest level of the Ministry. It was in the heaviness of the air all around them, invisible and whispering memories of their losses in their ears. Hermione glanced over her shoulder at the closed door of her bedroom.

Lucius Malfoy had been brought to Azkaban within weeks after the official end of the war. The Ministry hadn't been long in making him one of the first examples of its new, revolutionary, ruthless policy. He was now another empty shell haunting the Azkaban fortress. Or maybe nothing at all; nobody bothered to report the death of the prisoners. The testimony about the case of the Malfoy family and Narcissa's gesture that had led them to the victory Harry had written and rendered public before leaving had only earned a little delay to his wife and son before they were to meet the same fate. But when Aurors showed up a month later at the gates of the Malfoy Manor, Narcissa's still warm body was waiting for them in the master bedroom with a phial of poison clutched in her hand, and Draco was nowhere to be found.

He was on the List. He had always been on the List, with the inevitable sentence it implied. And now that he was in her bedroom, she herself had every chance to expand the List with her own name. Not that they would subject a war heroine, and moreover one of the two surviving members of the Golden Trio, to the Dementor's Kiss, but a stay in Azkaban was certainly not such a far-fetched possibility for sheltering a Death Eater on the run from the Ministry's justice. And yet she was doing it; every second she kept sitting there, on the sofa, instead of apparating to the Ministry and barging into the Auror Office. Because the scene she had witnessed a mere couple of hours earlier wasn't fading from her memory, wouldn't ever do, and it went against nature, against humanity, against everything she could possibly think of.

A nearly inaudible, high-pitched, ringing sound vibrated in the air, warning her that somebody was apparating into the apartment. Next moment, a young woman materialized in the middle of the living room area with a loud _pop_ and looked around, tucking the long waves of her dirty blond hair behind her ears, which were pierced with several tiny raw crystal stud earrings.

"You look awful," she stated lightly, fixing her wide, silvery eyes on Hermione.

Something in Luna's straightforward words, spoken in her soothing, singing voice, in her relaxed posture as she rocked slightly back and forth, twiddling with the small pompoms trimming the hem of her purple jumper, annihilated Hermione's last bits of pretense. It was of no use with Luna; she always sensed things as they were, past the masks people hid behind. Hermione gave her an exhausted smile.

"Nat is waiting for you. He spent the whole evening drawing yesterday."

"How did the trial go?" asked Luna softly, ignoring her poor attempt to avoid the topic and sitting down next to her.

Her warm hand found Hermione's and squeezed. She wasn't asking about the sentence, she already knew it; she was rather gauging her friend's reaction to it. Hermione closed her eyes tight, trying hard to swallow the painful lump in her throat.

"I thought he deserved it," she choked out, a long shudder shaking her body.

Her gaze flickered over her shoulder again and lingered on her bedroom door. Had Malfoy regained consciousness already?

"Nobody deserves that," she whispered at last.

The two girls sat in silence for some time, the pad of Luna's thumb rubbing small circles in Hermione's palm.

"I'll take Nat away for a couple of hours," said the blond girl finally. "To the Children's Home."

Hermione's head shot up, her brows furrowing.

"It didn't go well last time…" she replied worriedly, but Luna gave her an adamant look.

"He needs to get used to being around other people. Other kids. It won't do him any good to shut him away from the world, even if he likes it. You won't keep him forever, Hermione," she added quietly.

"I hope not!"

It was a lie. Hermione looked away, suddenly feeling very ashamed of wishing such a thing and biting her lip.

"You need to take some time for yourself," said Luna in a firm voice, standing up. "Is he in his room?"

The note of command in her tone contrasted with her singing voice and her usual gentle, dreamy manners. They were manifesting more and more rarely. The past year had changed many things. Her face lighting up, she followed Hermione to Nathaniel's bedroom. The young woman opened the door just a crack and popped her head inside; the little boy was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his neatly made bed and was classifying his drawings in piles in front of him, sorting them according to the colors he had used. He didn't look up when Hermione stepped inside the room but paused and tilted his head slightly.

"Lulu is here," smiled Hermione, sitting down next to him on the edge of the bed.

Dimples appeared on the boy's round cheeks as his face split into a wide smile. Sliding off the bed, he trotted to the bedroom door, pulling it fully open and revealing Luna, who was standing on the threshold. Looking past her legs, Nathaniel opened his arms wide and waited for her to squat down before him and pull him into a fierce hug. The boy giggled happily as she held him, gazing over her shoulder and playing with a shiny strand of her long hair.

"I heard there is a famous artist living in this room," whispered Luna in his ear very seriously. "Do you think he'd show me his work?"

Nodding enthusiastically, Nathaniel returned to the bed to gather his drawings.

"Hey, what do you think about showing them to me somewhere else? I would like to take you somewhere," offered Luna as he came back to her.

The boy frowned, hesitating, and shifted a little toward Hermione. She immediately slid from the bed, her hands flying to his shoulders and squeezing them gently as she knelt next to him.

"Lulu will stay with you the whole time," she assured him soothingly.

Luna's name always did wonders on the child, but he was still reluctant.

"Then I don't want to go for a walk tomorrow," he whispered.

Hermione sighed.

"Okay," she nodded. "I'll tell Molly that you want to stay inside. I believe Arnold will be there."

She grinned; the prospect of playing with Ginny's pygmy puff immediately calmed the child. He extended his hand to Luna and followed her to the living-room.

"Who is up for a Portkey ride?" she exclaimed brightly, taking a small object wrapped in a piece of cloth out of her pocket.

Portkeys were yet the only way to transport Nathaniel, who was too young to side-apparate – and would most probably have been scared into hysterics anyway – and Hermione's apartment not having a fireplace to use the Floo network. Luckily, the Ministry had given them the permission to create Portkeys – for short-distance travels and capable of carrying two people only – and the little boy genuinely appreciated the sensations procured by a Portkey trip, which reminded him of Muggle carrousel rides. As Luna unwrapped the Portkey – a stub of a blue color pencil – Hermione embraced Nathaniel to give him a peck on both cheeks and smiled encouragingly when he reached to touch the pencil at the same time with Luna. There was a gush of air, and the blond girl and the child disappeared in a dazzling whirlwind, leaving Hermione alone in the suddenly silent living-room. Immediately, her eyes flew to her bedroom. Luna taking Nat away came just in time.

Hermione crossed the living room, and bracing herself, lifted the wards locking her bedroom. Her wand firmly leveled at the doorway, she slowly pushed the door open. She could see a slice of her room; her empty double bed and the high pile of books rising next to its head end. Darting her wand all around, she entered the room. Malfoy was still in the space between the bed and the wardrobe, on the other side of the room. He wasn't lying on the floor anymore, but sitting with his back against the wall, his legs outstretched and his arms lying limply on either side of his body. His eyes were closed and the back of his head rested against the wall. The now empty glass was standing on the floor next to him.

"Malfoy…" called Hermione, her wand pointed at him, her voice breaking a little from nervousness.

His eyes snapped open so suddenly that she jumped back. They were disturbingly bright in contrast to all the dirt smeared on his face and the filthy hair framing it and were glinting almost feverishly. He stirred feebly, his head rolling to the side as he looked in her direction.

"Can I have something to eat?"

If she hadn't heard the hoarse whisper, she wouldn't have known he was speaking – his mouth hidden beneath the thick, unkempt stubble growing over his upper lip and his jaw. For how many months hadn't he shaved? Feeling all her wariness and animosity waver at the pathetic sight he offered, Hermione rounded the bed, knelt before him and tucked her wand in the waistline of her skirt behind her back.

"When was the last time you've eaten?" she asked gently, politely trying not to wince at the nauseous smell floating around the young man.

"Yesterday... I think. Yesterday morning," he answered in the same painfully raspy voice that was so different from the clear drawl she remembered him.

"Okay. Come on, I'll fix you something."

She beckoned him to the door and heard him get up heavily as she exited the room. She was already standing in the kitchen area, her hand on the handle of the fridge, when Malfoy's unsteady figure emerged out of her bedroom. He was taking small, cautious steps, looking all around like an animal exploring a new, hostile environment. Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye as she took a saucepan out of the fridge and put it on the stove, lighting the burner.

"You can sit there," she gestured toward one of the bar stools on the other side of the kitchen counter, preferring to have something between them.

Malfoy's gaze flickered to the dining table, but he settled on the indicated seat without a word. As she stirred the contents of the saucepan with a ladle, Hermione was acutely aware of his silent presence behind her back and it unsettled her to the core.

"Here," she said, ladling a generous amount of thick green soup into a bowl and pushing it toward him across the counter. "I thought you'd better start with something light. Your stomach might hurt, and you might vomit, if I gave you more substantial food."

With a groan of impatience, Malfoy grabbed the spoon she gave him and dipped it in the soup, but his hand was trembling so much when he lifted it that he spilled the thick liquid on the surface of the counter. He threw the spoon aside, and almost moaning from hunger, grabbed the bowl and started drinking the soup directly from it. Frozen on the spot, Hermione stared at him with a mix of horror and pity. The last time she had seen somebody eat so ravenously was during their infamous year on the run when after days of frozen berries, herbs and mushrooms, Harry and Ron had thrown themselves on some tinned ravioli she had managed to get stealthily from a Muggle store.

Her shock was all the bigger that the change that had occurred in Malfoy's appearance and demeanor since the last time she had seen him couldn't have been more radical. He hadn't been particularly shiny back then either; covered in soot, with some dry blood on his temple, his hair tousled and his clothes ripped in places, as he stood with his parents in the Great Hall after the final battle. But this… This dirty, shivering creature in rags, swallowing down the scorching hot soup as though his life depended on it (which was probably the case)… Hermione caught herself doubting that it was even the real Draco Malfoy. Sensing her gaze on him, he paused and glanced at her over the rim of the bowl. Quickly averting her eyes, Hermione paced the kitchen before finally finding something to do.

"I'll make you some tea…" she muttered, putting the electric kettle to boil.

The clatter of the bowl against the countertop indicated that Malfoy had finished his soup. Still battling against the contradictory feelings overwhelming her, Hermione tapped her fingertips on the kitchen worktop, staring at the kettle until it wheezed and emitted a column of vapor. She brewed a mug of strong black tea and dropped three lumps of sugar in it, at the risk of making it overly sweet, but it wouldn't be a luxury considering that Malfoy certainly had hypoglycemia. Turning back to him, she put the cup before him and climbed on a bar stool at the other end of the counter. She watched him sip the tea, his long, thin fingers curled around the hot cup. His hands weren't trembling as much anymore. His pale, gray eyes, which now had a calmer look in them, peered at her from underneath the greasy strands of hair falling across his forehead.

"I'm sorry I attacked you," he said in a low voice, setting the cup back on the counter. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

Hermione was perfectly aware that he was saying it to show some basic decency now that he was on her territory and his fate depended on her, rather than because he was truly sorry. But it was still more than she could have expected from him. She pursed her lips, suddenly noticing the throbbing pain on the left side of her head, where soon would be a pretty huge bump. She was however relieved that Malfoy didn't look as insane anymore as he did in the hallway of the house.

"For how long have you been following me?" she asked, careful not to sound aggressive.

"I recognized you outside the Leaky Cauldron…"

Hermione's brows shot up.

"It was you!" she exclaimed. "I tripped over your leg!"

She frowned, puzzled.

"What were you doing there? The whole Wizarding world is after you! You are on the List!"

"Sometimes, the best hiding place is in plain sight," shrugged Malfoy.

His gaze darkened as he raised his sunken eyes to her.

"I've been hoping for a long time to catch a glimpse of you or Potter."

"Harry is gone," said Hermione evenly.

"That's what I heard."

There was a moment of silence before Hermione spoke again.

"You said you need help. You asked me… _not to let them take what's left_ … What does it mean, Malfoy? What do you want from me?"

Instantly, she saw his eyes widen, a mute panic returning in his gaze. His hands gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles turning white, and he drew a sharp breath.

"You have to promise… Granger, you have to swear…" he mumbled, his yet again demented eyes boring into hers. "If you refuse to help me after I tell you… Don't hand me over to the Ministry… Just let me walk away. Let me disappear…"

Startled, Hermione could only stare at him. An awful foreboding at the pit of her stomach screamed her that she'd better kick him out of her apartment and out of her life immediately. And then, against all reason, she felt her head move.

"Okay," she nodded. "Okay."

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

"I disgust you."

It was a statement. And one that had nothing to do with his general appearance.

"No."

It was the truth. Because any other emotion was overshadowed by the ugliest fear she had ever felt. Hermione gripped the saucepan stronger when it clanked against the metallic bottom of the kitchen sink as she scrubbed the inside with a soapy sponge, the stiffness of her hands occasionally turning into uncontrollable trembling. As Malfoy remained silent, she gave up on trying doing the dishes and threw the pan and the sponge into the sink. Holding onto the rim with both hands, she forced herself to take deep, calming breaths.

"It doesn't make any sense…" she hissed through gritted teeth. "He wanted… He wanted to be the only one to live forever... _Why_?"

"'To live forever'?" scoffed Malfoy mirthlessly. "He didn't make us immortal, Granger! It takes another kind of magic to render a body nearly invulnerable… You saw the marks of it in how _he_ looked like. Unlike him, we are still aging, our bodies remain as vulnerable to all human ailments as before. Most of us… didn't even go through the whole process. Which makes the split pieces of our soul… unstable. He didn't want us to live forever… He wanted us to be trapped. We just can't leave this world. The other piece of our soul keeps us bound to it. He hid them so he was the only one to know where they were. Being able to destroy them any moment, to inflict us infinite pain or manipulate us like puppets – even more than he already could – it guaranteed him our unswerving loyalty."

Every word made Hermione feel sick in her stomach as the meaning diffused like poison in her mind. She slowly turned around to face him, bracing herself on the edge of the kitchen worktop, and considered him with eyes full of horror.

"Who? How many? I need a list!" she choked out, her lips white. "And what they are. I need to know what the Horcruxes are."

She held Malfoy's steely gaze, battling against the revulsion she felt in that moment.

"I'll give you the names," he answered in a low voice. "And I'll tell you what they are. Eventually. For now, you'll have to make do with what I've already told you."

He was sitting very straight now, something in his posture reminding of his long lost poise, despite all the filth he was covered with. Eating had given him some strength, and the necessity to make her listen to everything he had to tell her forced him to pull himself together and to anchor his shattering mind on the present situation. Hermione could see defensiveness and a cold calculation build up in his gaze, all fear and panic discarded for the duration of the negotiation.

"Why?" she asked, doing her best to conceal the fear _she_ very much felt.

"Because I need you to need me. And for this, I need to keep some of the information for myself. I know how you work, Granger. You are going to try and warn the Ministry that the executions must stop because they are useless anyway. That some prisoners need _special treatment_ …"

"This is making the Dementor's Kiss even worse if possible!" she cut him off, vaguely realizing in the back of her mind that she was screaming. "Those who already went through it… They will always be stuck… Even after their body dies… Oh God…"

She bent over, her hands on her knees and breathing heavily to fight the mounting nausea. Malfoy's eyes flashed with something she couldn't quite place; probably terror at the thought that this was the fate waiting for him. However, when he spoke, his voice was cool and devoid of emotion.

"I need you to need me," he repeated. "You need names to know how to treat each prisoner. You don't want the Horcruxes of a bunch of dark wizards to be lost in nature. Because someday, somebody is going to find them some use. I'll give you names in exchange for help."

"What keeps me from handing you over to the Ministry ?" spat Hermione, horror paralyzing her brain at the same time it shook her body. "They will be quick to get all the information they need."

"My guess would be; the same reason you let me in. Granger, you promised…" He closed his eyes, a muscle twitching in his cheek, and then opened them again to hiss: "There is nothing keeping you from doing this. But think: what would they do with this information? You didn't let me in for nothing in the first place, Granger. You don't think what the Ministry is doing is right. You don't think the executions are right. You don't think I deserve it…"

But he didn't sound so sure of himself. Fear was swirling in his dilated pupils.

"You killed," said Hermione in a hard voice, looking straight at him. "I know you had to kill to create your Horcrux."

"Yes."

It struck her how blank his face and voice suddenly were.

"Who?"

"I don't know. One of ours. One of the vermin at the bottom of the heap. He had to be punished. He was a defector."

He answered effortlessly, not showing any sign of emotion, and Hermione wondered whether there was still anything human about him.

"Who else did you kill?" she seethed.

Malfoy remained silent, something unfathomable glinting in his gaze, and she knew she wouldn't get any other information out of him for the moment. Why should she help him? _Because it went against nature, against humanity, against everything she could possibly think of._ _Nobody deserved that._

"What do you expect from me exactly?" asked Hermione coolly.

The icy gray eyes scanned her from head to toe.

"I believe you are kind of an expert in the matter – you, Potter and Weasley."

Hermione snapped her eyes shut and inhaled sharply. Malfoy continued, ignoring her.

"With Weasley dead and Potter gone, you are my last option. But even if they were here, you would still be the best option."

"What. Do. You want?" hammered Hermione.

"I want it back!" exploded Malfoy suddenly, roaring. "I want my whole soul back!"

He was standing now, the bar stool he had been sitting on knocked over. His fists pounded on the counter and punctuated his every word. Hermione shifted discretely, slipping an arm behind her back. Her fingers closed around her wand still tucked in the waistline of her skirt, ready to stun him as she watched a flicker of madness return in his gaze. Malfoy suddenly stilled, his arms hanging in defeat at the sides of his body.

"I need it back…" he mumbled, looking at her with despair. "Please, Granger… I need it back."

He seemed on the verge of breaking down. Hermione blinked and bowed her head.

"It's impossible," she whispered. "In all the research I've ever done, I've never come across any reverse ritual."

She glanced up at Malfoy just as he stumbled backward as though he had received a blow and slumped onto the floor, his face in his hands. Hermione bit her lip.

"There was an allusion once…" she muttered.

Malfoy's head shot up.

"It just said that the mere attempt to fix a splintered soul would inflict such damage to your mind and body that you would either be plunged into a vegetative state or die."

But Malfoy was getting up, shaking his head adamantly.

"Anything… I don't care!" he rasped out. "If it doesn't work, then I want it destroyed but die a human… For good… I want my parents to rest in peace…"

"Them too?" asked Hermione, her eyes wide.

"Yes."

His head hanging low, he picked the fallen bar stool from the floor and sat back on it. Hermione considered him with a mix of terror, disgust and pity etched on her features. Death was certainly not such a bad option.

"Why did you do it?" she breathed. "Even if he threatened to kill you… How could you choose _that_?"

Malfoy's shoulders shook as he sneered, deep, wheezing gasps escaping his chest and the veins of his neck swelling. But the laughter didn't reach his eyes, which had never looked as lifeless as in this moment.

"Being killed was not an option," he spat. "Many would have chosen it otherwise. Except for the lunatics, who considered it to be a great honor."

He raised to her a terrifying, haunted gaze.

"You have no idea of what he could do to us to be obeyed," he hissed.

He squeezed his eyes shut and ran a hand through his hair that was so greasy and dirty that it remained brushed backward on the top of his head, revealing the deep crease between his eyebrows and an old, blackening bruise near the line of his hair.

"My father was one of these lunatics," he said tonelessly after a moment, as though what he was going to say wouldn't change anything, but he still needed to get it out. "He had become obsessed, ready to do anything to restore his place in our master's ranks. He was one of the first to do it. It had been a surprise to the Dark Lord himself, who saw him as a coward only willing to do the strict minimum. And my mother… My mother would have followed my father to Hell. It had always been like this. So she did. But she was fragile, more fragile and sensitive than any of us. Right away I knew she couldn't bear it. This… This was his leverage to get me as well. If I did it, he promised to reverse the process for her. I didn't think. When I saw how it affected her, the pain he could inflict her, I was too fucking stupid and blinded to see that there was no way he would keep his word. And as months passed, she was slowly slipping away. When the Ministry took my father, it had been the final straw. She had even forgotten what death meant in our state. She had simply lost it. And now… I know she is trapped. And my father is trapped. _But she_ … _She_ doesn't deserve it."

Hermione remained silent, unable to think of anything to say, to do, to decide. The silence seemed to stretch out, thick and heavy, suffocating. She was so lost in thought that she was startled when Malfoy spoke again, having even forgotten about his presence.

"Do you want me to leave?"

His voice was calm and quiet. And Hermione felt all the weight of what he was asking her come crashing down on her so heavily that she wondered how the ground wasn't cracking beneath her feet and swallowing her.

"There is a child living here," she said at last in a taut yet final voice. "I don't want you anywhere near him. You'll stay in my room. You'll go out when I allow you to, and the rest of the time you'll be locked in there. I'll move my things to the living-room."

Malfoy was listening to her almost warily, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

"You have to wash yourself," she continued, looking suddenly exhausted, and rounded the kitchen counter, gesturing vaguely at him. "Come on, I'll show you the bathroom."

She led him back into her bedroom and headed for the adjoining bathroom, while he stopped silently in the doorway. There was another bathroom in the apartment, next to Nathaniel's room, but she preferred to move her things from this one so Malfoy would stay confined to her bedroom. She gathered everything she needed to take to the other bathroom and took great care to retrieve all the nail scissors, tweezers, and razors. She felt him watch her as she did, but didn't look at him; even though she had her wand, and he was weak and unarmed, she wasn't going to take needless risks and leave potential weapons at his disposal. Once she was done going around the room, she put several bottles of shower gel on the rim of the tub and took a fresh bath sheet from a cupboard.

"There," she muttered, pausing as she assessed Malfoy with a critical look. "Take your time."

Shifting uncomfortably, Hermione waited for him to step aside so she wouldn't have to brush past him, and he finally seemed to understand. He entered the bathroom and stood as far from her as the small space allowed. She walked out, her face – a frozen mask.

"Granger," he called before she shut the door. "I don't have other clothes… How can I clean these?"

Hermione glanced at him over her shoulder and quirked an eyebrow.

"Only fire can clean these," she smirked, her nose crinkling. "Put them on the floor, I'll get rid of them when you are done and I'll find you something else."

She closed the door and waited to hear shortly after the loud splashing of cascading water as Malfoy turned on the shower jet. Hermione went to her wardrobe and searched through the boxes at the bottom for the spare clothing her parents had left behind for the times they came to stay overnight: she took out one of her father's plain gray t-shirts and a pair of blue, striped pajama bottoms. Mr. Granger was a little smaller than Malfoy, but Malfoy was definitely skinnier, and even if the pajama trousers would be a little short around the ankles, the clothes should fit otherwise and would do the job until she could get him something else. Her fingers brushed against a slightly rough woolen fabric, and her breathing hitched as her eyes landed on a brown knitted sweater with an orange R embroidered on its chest and that lay at the bottom of one of the boxes, beneath a couple of her father's button-down shirts. Hermione withdrew her hand as though she had received an electric shock and slammed the door of the wardrobe shut.

She put the folded pajamas on the seat next to her small dressing table and proceeded to tear her sheets off the bed to bring them to the sofa in the living room, where she dropped them in a crumpled heap. She returned to her room to make her bed with a fresh set of bed sheets, and then went around the room to gather some clothes from the wardrobe, a few books and some needed personal effects from her dressing table, sending all of it to the living room with a flick of her wand, before striding to the bathroom door, through which she could still hear the thundering of the shower. She knocked twice loudly and leaned toward the door panel.

"Malfoy!" she called through the door. "I put some clothes for you on the seat next to the dressing table. I'll leave and lock the room now."

There was no answer, but Hermione did not wait to check if he had heard her. She walked out of the room, carefully closing the door and locking it with a series of charms, and then her knees buckled, and she slid to the floor along the wall, her breathing coming in shallow puffs out of her chest. She drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around them, rocking back and forth as she rested her forehead on her kneecaps. It never ended. She would never leave behind the hell of the Horcrux hunt. Everything was wrong in this life, where even death wasn't definitive.

And now, she was all alone.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

Hermione waved her wand, sending the last plates that had just finished magically cleaning themselves in the sink to their right places in the kitchen cupboard. She felt too drained to do the dishes the Muggle way. Sighing, she went quietly to Nathaniel's room and opened the door just a crack, and then fully. The small lamp on the nightstand bathed the room in a soft light, casting long shadows on the walls. Leaning against a pile of pillows, Nathaniel was sitting in the middle of the bed; he had a book across his lap he used as a support as he drew something with a red color pencil on the piece of paper he had laid out on it. Hermione slipped inside the room and went to sit on the edge of the bed next to him.

"What are you drawing?" she asked softly.

"A dragon," whispered the child, dragging the color pencil over the same spot again and again, deforming the paper.

He had been upset the entire evening, barely speaking a few words, which was unusual as spending time with Luna always relaxed him and made him more talkative for a few hours.

"It's late, Nat. I'm sure even your dragon would like to sleep now," said Hermione in a gentle yet firm voice and took the book, the paper, and the pencil from the kid to put them on the bedside table.

The little boy slid under his comforter and lay down very straight, the blanket drawn up to his chin, looking fixedly at the ceiling. Hermione bit her lip and reached to tuck him in.

"Lulu said you stayed with her the entire day and didn't want to play with other children."

She was very careful to make it sound like a question and certainly not like a reproach. Nathaniel, however, tensed immediately.

"They won't talk to me, why would I talk to them? They won't like me any better if I make them," he muttered, hardly concealed hurt visible on his small, delicate face.

Hermione felt her heart clench.

"Nat, you know you have to look at people when you talk," she called, waiting for him to make eye contact.

She hated telling him to do things, but as Luna said, it was the only way to progress, and after all, it was the reason she had taken the child in; so he could have someone to remind him all these things he had to do. The little boy finally turned his big hazel eyes to her, and she smiled, stroking his cheek with the back of her fingers.

"How do you know they don't want to be your friends if you don't try and talk to them?" she asked.

Nathaniel looked at her with a sad seriousness and Hermione had to resist the urge to hug him fiercely. He wouldn't like that.

"They called me that again," he answered in a barely audible voice. "They called me a Squib."

"You are not a Squib, Nat," replied Hermione soothingly. "They don't know what they are talking about."

The boy frowned, his lips pursing.

"Yes, they do. They can do all these magical things and _I_ can't," he mumbled.

Leaning over him, Hermione cupped his face in her hands.

"And so what, even if you are a Squib?" she asked with a crooked smile.

The child looked at her with wide eyes.

"It doesn't matter, Nat," she said firmly, her hands still wrapped around his small face. "Don't ever compare yourself with others; it's what you do with the abilities you have that determines your worth, not what you can't do with something you don't have anyway. Who do you think deserves more merit? Magic will make their lives easier, _whereas you_ , you will actually succeed in doing things all by yourself, because you are unique, and talented, and look at all the wonderful things you can do without magic!"

"I can't do anything better than them," said Nathaniel quietly.

"That's not true!" exclaimed Hermione. "You can do plenty of things they can't! Here…" she snatched his drawing from the bedside table. "Don't tell me there is anyone of them, who can draw better than that!" she smirked.

The child glanced hesitantly at the paper out of the corner of his eye, and slowly, a small smile played on his lips.

"Mara's dragon looked like a potato with wings," he whispered and Hermione laughed.

"See!" she grinned. "I bet when you'll go to Hogwarts, you'll beat them all in Transfiguration! It takes an ability to visualize like yours to conjure things or transform them! And if you can't go to Hogwarts…" she continued before he could interrupt her, "then you'll be a famous Muggle architect, or painter, or designer, or whatever you want! Don't let them tell you what you can or cannot be; they don't have enough imagination to get to do that!"

Nathaniel did not answer. Rolling to his side and curling up under the comforter, he wrapped his arms around himself and started rocking slightly, his eyes fixed on the nightlight. Hermione put a hand on his small shoulder and just rested it there as she watched him lull himself to sleep. He was always doing it when he was upset. There had been a lot of improvement in other aspects, but he still struggled to express his emotions, and more importantly, to have enough faith in somebody to help him through it. Her words were not enough. The behavioral Healer he was seeing twice a week and the art therapy program Luna had made for him were not enough. _She_ was not enough. He needed to interact with others as much as possible, but how could she force him?

But in the end, it always came to this. Hermione had seen enough in her life to know that loneliness was the worst. It could throw a shadow even on the soundest of minds, locking them within themselves, not to speak about a six-year-old child torn away from everything and everyone he used to know. Loneliness could take many forms. Sirius' face floated in her mind, and the haunted look he kept to the end of his life after his twelve years of isolation, forced to adopt the skin of an animal to suppress his human feelings. And then, the memory of a cold evening at the beginning of the previous winter; Ron yelling at her and Harry, anger and rejection etched on his face as he stormed out of the tent. And Harry's taciturn silence that lingered more and more as the weeks of wandering in the wilderness passed and the Horcrux weighed down on them all. And Ginny's frightened, hurt expression as she ran out of the execution room mere hours earlier. And her own face in the mirror of her bathroom, and which she had the impression to be wearing like a mask for over a year now.

The apartment was so silent that Hermione could only hear Nathaniel's steady breathing next to her and the faint buzzing of the fridge coming through the open door from the kitchen area. But they were not alone. Another face emerged in her mind, locked away behind another door across the living-room. For how long had he been living in the streets? Who had helped him through the grieving of his parents? For how long had he been alone? Was he still human enough to feel alone? Or maybe it was the other way around… Maybe he was too alone to still feel human… Hermione glanced at Nathaniel, her heart suddenly beating faster from the diffused anxiety at the thought that she was probably about to commit a big mistake. The boy's eyelids were blinking drowsily, closing for a little bit longer every time, but he wasn't sleeping yet.

"Nat," whispered Hermione.

He opened his eyes, listening to her.

"Do you remember I told you we had a guest this morning?"

He hummed, nodding his head. Hermione took a deep breath, her mind made up.

"He is still there," she said softly. "He is staying in my room."

Nathaniel frowned, mulling over her words.

"He didn't come to eat dinner with us," he said with a question in his voice.

"Well… He is a bit shy. Like you," answered Hermione with a small, hesitant smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. "But he is going to stay for quite some time and… I was thinking that maybe he would like to eat with us tomorrow… Would you accept to meet him?"

The boy's shoulders tensed, his brows furrowing even more.

"He's your friend?" he asked warily.

 _No._

"Yes. I know him from when I went to school. But… It has to be a secret between you and me, okay? Don't tell anybody else about him; he doesn't want to be found by other people."

She watched him closely, waiting anxiously for his reaction. Nathaniel looked up at her, and the seriousness of his expression told her that he understood very well the desire to stay hidden from the outer world.

"Okay," he muttered, closing his eyes and burying his face in his pillow.

"Good night, little man," smiled Hermione, leaning to plant a gentle kiss on the soft hair on the side of his head.

She dimmed the light of his lamp to a minimum for the night and exited the room, closing the door quietly. Her gaze slid over the makeshift bed she had arranged for herself on the sofa, and she sighed, before crossing the living-room to her bedroom. She lifted the sound-proofing charms around the room, rapped her knuckles against the door to announce that she was entering, and pushed the doorknob, cautiously staying on the threshold. The room was shrouded in darkness, only feebly illuminated by the orangey light of the lampposts outside the window. Hermione suddenly remembered that Malfoy didn't have his wand and probably didn't know the muggle way to switch on the lights. She fumbled for the switch on the wall on the right of the door until her fingers found it and flicked it up, lighting the room.

Malfoy, who was sitting atop the blankets in the middle of the bed, winced a little when the light hit his eyes and looked up at her blankly as she stood in the doorway. He had eaten the spinach lasagna, the bread and the yoghurt she had brought him for dinner, and the now empty tray stood at the foot of the bed. Food was obviously doing him well as he didn't look as though he was about to crumble on himself like earlier in the day, and he was sitting very straight, leaning against the bed headboard. The little she could see of his lips wasn't sickly white anymore.

He still looked utterly exhausted however, even though he had slept through the day – Hermione having found him fast asleep every time she had come to check on him and bring him another cup of sweet tea. It would take him quite some time to recover from the months-long food and sleep deprivation he had gone through. His eyes were dull, and except tiredness, she read nothing in his gaze. Hermione watched him in silence for a moment, her gaze sliding over his way too long hair, his unshaven face, the outline of his thin limbs – he had always been slender, but in an athletic way; now the muscles had melted, and her father's pajama bottoms, which were indeed quite too short for him, revealed his ankles and feet that were all skin and bones. She could search all she wanted for some familiar sign of the Slytherin she remembered, she found none.

"You should shave tomorrow," she said quietly. "I don't want you to scare Nathaniel."

Malfoy's brows quivered as a semblance of a frown appeared on his face. He gave her a questioning look. Hermione sighed and leaned her shoulder against the doorframe.

"I'm not going to keep you locked away like an animal all of the time," she explained tiredly, running a hand through her hair that went from curly to downright frizzy toward the end of the day. "Unless you want to stay in there of course, you can come out and eat with us and stay in the living-room when I'm home. But for safety reasons, I'll lock you in this bedroom when I'm at work or somewhere else. Anyway… I would ask you to look a minimum decent for Nat."

She waited for him to answer as he considered her almost as if he was gauging whether she was serious or mocking him.

"Who is Nathaniel?" he muttered at last, his broken voice sounding loud in the silence.

"I told you there was a child living here," answered Hermione.

Malfoy looked slightly puzzled but did not insist.

"How old is he?" he asked simply.

"Six years old."

"It would be best if he didn't see me. He might blab about my presence to someone," said Malfoy, looking at his hands in his lap.

"He won't. I know him. He promised me," said Hermione firmly. "Besides, he doesn't talk much."

"You said he was six years old."

The young woman shifted uneasily.

"He doesn't speak to people unless he has to," she sighed. "Look, he doesn't even know who you are. Even if it slipped his tongue that there is somebody staying at my flat, nobody would ever think that it might be you! But as I told you, if you feel like staying in there, it's up to you."

Malfoy seemed to be thinking over her words, and she could see that the prospect of not being continuously trapped between four walls was tempting.

"Fine," he shrugged. "Just don't say my name in his presence."

Hermione nodded and frowned again.

"Don't talk to him if he doesn't talk to you," she said warningly, already apprehending what she was getting into. "I'm not saying it because of who you are…" she added quickly. "He just doesn't like strangers."

"I have no intention of talking to him," replied Malfoy evenly.

He stared at the wall, his face unreadable again, and Hermione went to pick up the tray from the bed. But as she was about to leave the room, she paused and turned around on the threshold, gazing at him with uncertainty.

"How does it feel…?" she blurted out suddenly, to her own surprise.

It was only now that she voiced the question that she realized it had been boring into her throughout the whole day – in the back of her mind, where the fear and the revulsion she felt were lurking. But Malfoy didn't seem taken aback by her question, and she was sure he knew exactly what she was talking about; it was almost as if he had been expecting it. He just watched her, his eyes losing their glazed look, and for a moment, Hermione thought that he was never going to answer. _And did she really want to know after all?_ Her knuckles went white as her fingers clenched unwittingly around the edges of the tray. But his steely gray eyes, suddenly incredibly sharp, were pinning her to the spot, and there was no way back, the words hanging in the air between them.

"How does it feel to have a chunk of your soul missing?" he supplied coldly, a distorted echo of his old, disdainful sneer in his voice.

Hermione nodded slowly. Malfoy lowered his gaze and his face shut.

"Most of the time it doesn't feel like anything," he said quietly. "It's even easier to keep your emotions in check. As if you had less of them to deal with. It was another advantage to him; to make us more reckless in battle, more insensitive toward the victims, less prone to chicken out under pressure, fear, or out of pity."

"Most of the time…" repeated Hermione.

For a fleeting second, cracks ran in his emotionless mask, his eyes widened just a little, his lips parted as though he wanted to say something. And in the darkness of his dilated pupils, she thought she glimpsed something that made words useless, something she didn't want to know. And then, it passed as quickly as it came, and Malfoy clenched his jaw.

"I'm going to need a razor to shave. And scissors to cut my hair," he muttered through gritted teeth, averting his gaze.

"I'm not giving you any of these while I'm away," frowned Hermione, straightening.

She hadn't even given him a knife for his dinner.

"You'll do it in my presence. I have things to do tomorrow morning, so you'll have to wait a bit until I'm back."

She turned away and then stopped again, suddenly seeming to remember something. Her face was pale when she spoke.

"Thorfinn Rowle… Is Thorfinn Rowle on your list? Just say yes or no. It's only one name."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, and the air of disdainful superiority he managed to pull despite his current position amazed her.

"I've already told you about me and my parents. That's three names."

"That was necessary to get me to help you," snapped Hermione dryly, refusing to retreat.

Malfoy glared at her for a moment, then all anger and reluctance left his face, to give place to sheer exhaustion. He shifted and slipped his legs under the blanket, lying down very straight and closing his eyes, his arms clasped at his sides.

"Yes. Turn off the light."

Hermione backed away, her hand finding the switch on the wall and plunging the room into darkness again. She closed the door, pulled out her wand to put up the wards back, and like in a daze, went to put the dirty dishes into the kitchen sink, before dragging her feet to the sofa and collapsing onto her makeshift bed. The second her head hit the pillow and she breathed in the familiar scent of jasmine of the washing powder she and her parents liked to use, her eyelids sealed and her consciousness was thrown into heavy, exhausted oblivion.

* * *

 **A/N:** For those of you who didn't recognize the symptoms, Nathaniel is an autistic child.


	3. Out of tune

**Chapter 3**

 **Out of tune**

The sky overhead was oddly plain; the perfectly white clouds were devoid of any grayish wisps and hung unusually low like the flat canvas of a tent. For once, it wasn't raining, which meant he wouldn't have to spend the day searching for eaves or porches to hide under and could keep his clothes dry for at least a few hours; good weather never lasted for long in London, especially at this time of the year. Draco blinked drowsily, his eyelids feeling as heavy as lead and sticky, and as he tried to clear his foggy mind, the ceiling came into focus. A ceiling… He definitely did not have to search for a shelter then.

Everything felt deliciously dry and warm. For once, he wasn't aching all over. Everything felt soft, and even his own limbs felt like cotton, as though his whole body had been numbed. Something was weighing down on him from his chin to the tip of his toes - a thick, white blanket that covered the entire bed and smelled faintly of jasmine. He could hear the usual noises of the city – Muggle cars and motorbikes roaring, people talking – but they were substantially muffled, coming from afar – from the other side of the thick window pane on his left. They were merely a low, continuous buzzing, streaming through the window with a bleak semblance of daylight and accompanied by a faint but constant tapping sound.

There they were: the dark stormy clouds, spilling their endless dreary drizzle that came crashing against the glass. It didn't bother him anymore, and the sound rather lulled him back to sleep. From somewhere nearer however, through one of the doors opposite the bed, were flowing the notes of a quiet piano melody played by someone in the other room. The notes stirred something in the depths of his memory, pulling him out of his slumber. But it was always best to choose numbness over the emotions he had long shut away. He focused on the peaceful tapping sound of the rain and closed his eyes, falling back fast asleep.

 **/**

A sizzling sound and the sweet smell of frying pancake batter greeted Hermione when she entered the small kitchen of the Burrow. Freeing his hand out of hers, Nathaniel scampered around the dining table and went to stand next to Mrs. Weasley, waiting for her to notice his presence as she busied herself over the stove, ladling generous amounts of white, creamy batter onto a large pan, and piling golden pancakes as large as plates onto a tray on the kitchen worktop. With an exclamation, Mrs. Weasley squatted down before the little boy and pulled him into a tight but brief hug. Molly was one of the very few people Nathaniel allowed to hug him, and it was better not to push the privilege. Some ten seconds later, he emerged out of her embrace - the flour covering her apron now smeared all over his dark blue jumper - and stood patiently while Molly dusted it off him. As soon as she let go of him, he climbed onto a chair at the dining table, where a plate, a fork, a jug of milk and a pot of honey were already waiting for him.

"I hope you are hungry, young man," said Mrs. Weasley, smiling widely and putting the tray of hot pancakes onto the table. "We have all these for only four of us."

Nathaniel nodded enthusiastically as his plate disappeared under a giant pancake and Molly poured liquid honey all over it.

"Where is she?" mouthed Hermione, when Mrs. Weasley turned to her to give her a hug as well.

Molly raised a finger, pointing to the ceiling.

"I'm going to see if I can find Arnold," smiled the young woman to Nathaniel.

The little boy hummed distractedly, too busy stuffing his mouth with big bites of pancake. Hermione left the kitchen and crossed the narrow entrance of the house, crammed with broken umbrellas, mud-covered garden boots, and an old watering can that would sprinkle anybody within its reach if there was some water left inside. She went past the closed door of the scullery and the gaping doorway of the living room, from which came the loud ticking of a clock and the clicking sound of Mrs. Weasley's enchanted needles that were always knitting something, before reaching the foot of the stairs that zigzagged up the askew structure of the Burrow and creaked beneath her feet as she climbed them.

From somewhere far away overhead came the moans and noises of the ghoul banging on the pipes in the attic, but besides that, everything was quiet as Hermione ascended the dimly lit flight of stairs to the landing of the first floor, where Ginny's room was. Even though it was the smallest of all and that all the other bedrooms, excepts her parents', were now unoccupied – Bill, Charlie, Percy, and George having left for their own homes – Ginny hadn't moved to another room, and when Hermione knocked on the door and entered, almost nothing had changed since the first time she had seen it.

The scene outside the window on the far wall was blurred from the rain streaming down the glass, but she could make out the naked branches of the trees in the orchard as they billowed in the fierce wind. To compensate for the lack of daylight, all the gas lamps in the room were lit. Hermione's eyes ranged over the stacks of old, battered Hogwarts textbooks on the desk under the window, the pink dressing gown hanging from the back of the chair, the old, faded posters of Celestina Warbeck and the Holyhead Harpies pinned to the walls. Her gaze lingered on the scraps of parchment, balled, crumpled and scattered on the floor, and the ones, still blank and intact, on the bedside table, next to an inkwell and a quill that had been broken in a fit of anger.

Careful to keep a straight face, Hermione went to sit on the edge of the bed, facing Ginny who was settled cross-legged in the middle of it, atop her plaid-patterned bedspread. She was still wearing her light pink fleece pajamas, her hair pulled in a messy bun at the top of her head, and her eyes were slightly bloodshot while she gazed unseeingly at the newspaper in her lap. Hermione reached out tentatively to take it, and as Ginny did not object, she held it up, scanning rapidly the front page of _the Daily Prophet_.

"It arrived this morning," said Ginny tonelessly.

The words ' _Thorfinn Rowle_ ' and ' _another exemplary sentence_ ' caught Hermione's attention, and she tossed the newspaper to the foot of the bed with a scowl.

"You okay?" she asked Ginny softly.

Her friend sniffed and glared at the fallen newspaper.

"Kingsley paid us a visit yesterday evening. They talked for hours downstairs – him, Dad and the others. They all seem to think that the Order still exists and has a role to play," she snorted bitterly.

Hermione frowned; it was long she wasn't attending the Order meetings that were taking place once a week at the Burrow. She simply did not see the point now that the war was over and Kingsley and the Weasleys were the only members. They spent most of the time discussing Ministry business and what little Kingsley gave away of the plans of the Ruling Committee.

"What did he say?" she sighed tiredly, thinking that the meeting probably had to with Rowle's execution.

Ginny glanced up at her.

"He said there are rumors starting to spread…" she answered slowly. "The Dementors are more and more furious..."

Hermione froze, staring at Ginny.

"What kind of rumors?"

"They say there is something wrong about the prisoners. Well… _There is obviously everything wrong about them_ , but… Kingsley said it took the Dementors one hour to get Rowle out of Azkaban simply because _they couldn't locate him_! He was still there, in his cell, but they couldn't sense him… And it wouldn't be the first time… People start talking about security issues…"

Hermione averted her gaze, thinking. She wasn't surprised as it wasn't the first time she heard about these things. However, Malfoy's recent revelations shed a whole new light on all the questions and rumors that had been arising over the past months.

"You don't approve of it, do you?"

Ginny's matter-of-fact voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Hermione gave her a puzzled look and the girl rolled her eyes.

" _The executions_. You don't approve of them. Luna came by yesterday evening as well to check on me. She said you were pretty shaken when she went to your place to pick up Nat."

Hermione lowered her gaze, her brows furrowing.

"You were shaken too," she retorted defensively.

"It wasn't easy to watch," murmured Ginny, her voice softening. "It had been even harder the first time – for Fred. But I think they deserve it," she finished firmly. "Don't you?"

Hermione looked up at her, her heart clenching at the unforgiving fierceness she saw in Ginny's gaze.

"I think there hadn't been so many people subjected to the Dementor's Kiss since Ekrizdis himself," she answered.

Ginny shrugged but averted her gaze.

"I'm surprised you haven't already founded an activist group for the prisoners' rights or something…" she muttered darkly.

"I don't think my voice would change anything in front of the Ruling Committee. The public opinion is on their side."

"So you did think about it!" scoffed Ginny, shaking her head. "Why don't you tell Kingsley? I think it would give some purpose to the Order meetings."

Hermione raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"I don't think my opinion would have much weight there either. Not without Harry to support me."

She tensed instinctively as Ginny's eyes flashed with anger.

"And he isn't interested in our petty struggles anymore, is he?" she spat sarcastically with a sour look on her face.

There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence, during which Hermione twiddled with the hem of her shirt and Ginny shredded absentmindedly a loose sheet of parchment to pieces. She eventually sighed and crawled across the distance between her and Hermione to snuggle against her side, resting her head on her shoulder. Hermione wrapped an arm around the girl and rubbed her back soothingly.

"Did you write him?" she asked quietly, afraid of triggering another outburst.

"Not since last month. You?"

"Yesterday," admitted Hermione. "Just to tell him about the sentence."

"You think he is going to answer?"

"I don't know. But I had to tell him. And even if he decides to answer, I don't know how long it would take to get his response. He could be on the other side of the planet for all we know."

Ginny nodded and pulled away, looking defeated.

"I'm not going back to Hogwarts," she confessed after a moment hesitation.

Hermione watched her with a mix of surprise and concern. Like her, Ginny did not take the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of the school year, but she expected her to go back there the year after, as she had not only her seventh year to go but also her sixth year to repeat; the classes during the Carrows' rule had been precarious, to say the least.

"I've talked with Mom and Dad. They are okay with this," said Ginny quickly.

She got up from the bed and went to her desk to take a thick envelope from a stack of books and hand it to Hermione.

"Look."

Hermione pulled the parchment out of the envelope and unfolded an official-looking letter.

"I've been training a lot over the past months," explained Ginny while she read it. "And it's an opportunity I can't miss. The Holyhead Harpies are building a whole new substitute team for the next season, and if the rumors about their Seeker leaving for the Falmouth Falcons are true, I may even have a chance to be on the actual team!"

"Oh Gin'! This is wonderful!" beamed Hermione, genuinely delighted by the piece of news, and jumped to her feet to squeeze her friend in her arms.

To her surprise, Ginny looked relieved as though she had been unsure of her reaction until then.

"Are you sure?" she asked sheepishly. "You know, I'll be gone most of the time for training sessions, and I feel really bad about leaving you…"

Hermione waved her off dismissively.

"Don't be silly! I have Nat and Luna, and your parents and mine seem like teaming up to dote over me! I'm not available often either; with Nat, the Ministry, and the NEWTs… _You need this, Gin'!_ "

Ginny grinned.

"Speaking about Nat…" she chuckled, going to a small cage standing on a bookshelf and plunging her arm inside to retrieve a small ball of purplish, shivering fur. "I was thinking about giving him Arnold for good."

"You don't have to…" started Hermione, remembering it was Fred who had given Ginny the pet.

"I won't have time to take care of him, anyway," shrugged the girl. "And Nat should have a pet. I heard Luna say it was good for kids like him. It's too bad you had to leave Crookshanks at your parents' because of his allergy."

"You don't have to give Arnold away completely," insisted Hermione. "Nat is there nearly every day anyway while I'm at work. We don't have to move Arnold to my place."

"It's up to you," smiled Ginny. "Come on, I believe Mom made pancakes."

Hermione followed her out of the room and back downstairs to the kitchen, where Ginny squatted next to Nathaniel's chair to let him take the pygmy puff from her shoulder. There was nothing left of his giant pancake, but the child – after a quick glance at Mrs. Weasley who did as though she wasn't noticing – put the minuscule furry creature onto the edge of his plate for it to lick the honey smeared on it. Taking a seat on either side of the table, Hermione and Ginny then proceeded to tuck into their own breakfast. But despite everything she had said to her friend to dissipate her fears, now that she thought about Ginny leaving, Hermione felt like a knot in her stomach. She wasn't planning on telling her about anything that had to do with Malfoy – Ginny would certainly not be as "open-minded" as she was – but her departure was a hard blow in the face of the events that made Hermione feel more alone than ever. As she silently chewed on her pancake, Mrs. Weasley's warm hand closed around her shoulder.

"Are you alright, dear?" she inquired worriedly.

"Everything is fine," assured Hermione, quickly putting on the face she reserved for this kind of questions.

"The Ministry gave you a few days off, right?" insisted Molly, slipping another pancake onto her plate.

"I have until tomorrow. Then, I'll have to get back to work on Thursday and I'll bring Nat here in the morning."

She shifted, giving Molly an apologetic look; it had been her idea, and hence her responsibility, to take care of the little boy, but she had to drop him at the Burrow every time Luna wasn't available to look after him. But Mrs. Weasley smiled warmly at her.

"You know it's always a pleasure having him here!"

She knew: Molly had immediately taken the child under her wing, glad to have somebody to dote over now that most of her own children and Harry were gone and Ginny wouldn't let her. And luckily, Nathaniel had adopted her pretty quickly as well. When she had eaten enough to convince Molly that she wasn't going to die of starvation, Hermione stood up – and assuring Mrs. Weasley and Ginny that she would be back in a couple of hours to spend the afternoon with them – left the kitchen to take her coat and scarf hanging in the entrance of the Burrow. Her mind was set despite the fact that her stomach was lurching from the constant impression she was only adding to the series of bad decisions that had started when she let Malfoy into her apartment and into her life. Taking her wand out of the pocket of her jeans, Hermione disapparated.

 **/**

She had to reappear at the dead end of a small dark back-street, a few blocks of houses away from the actual place she intended to go to, and where there were no passers-by to see her materializing out of thin air. Only a stray cat jumped from behind a waste container and scampered up a fire-escape ladder, spitting indignantly at her. Quickly getting her bearings, Hermione walked out of the deserted back-street and headed up a broad store-lined road, making a bee-line between the lazily strolling shoppers for a large old red-brick department store. Written in smudged white paint across the front wall, giant characters indicated the name of the place: _Purge and Dowse Ltd_. It was seemingly abandoned, and the signs hanging above the rusty doors, which had paint peeling off them, and the dull window displays all read: _Closed for Refurbishment_.

Hermione edged along the building, watching out of the corner of her eye the dusty dummies standing behind the shop windows. She ignored the female one in a green nylon pinafore dress, which guarded the main entrance of _Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_ , and went to the very end of the long building, where the last two shop windows were secretly giving to the two new wings of the hospital. In the window on her left, a male dummy wearing a hat and a muddy brown trench coat marked the entrance of the homeless shelter that had been opened at the end of the war. Not many wizards and witches came to seek shelter there, as Ministry officials of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement often showed up to look for fugitives, people whose names were on the List, but also those whose allegiance during the war had been questionable. The last window display of the building hid the entrance to the Children's Home – also a place that had become urgently needed after the war. Hermione stopped in front of it and leaned forward discretely.

"I come to see Luna Lovegood; she is working here as a volunteer," she mouthed to the child dummy clad in a red beret and a gray wool coat and holding one of the creepiest teddy bears she had ever seen.

The dummy bowed its faceless plastic head, and the teddy bear moved a paw to beckon her inside. Casting a glance over her shoulder to check that nobody was paying attention, Hermione stepped through the glass with the familiar feeling of passing through a sheet of cool water. She emerged on the other side into a small reception area, where a young blond witch was sitting behind the reception desk and reading _Witch Weekly_ with a bored look. She was wearing the same work robes as all the medical staff of _Saint Mungo's_ , except that hers were not lime-green but old pink, and the emblem embroidered on her chest was a teddy bear holding a magic wand.

Hermione crossed the hall, her gaze running around the entrance of the Children's Home; even though she came there quite often, she could never get used to it, and it comforted her once again in the idea that taking Nathaniel away from this place had been the right thing to do. As in every hospital institution, an unfathomable unease reigned on the place, and no buckets of flowers, no colorful garlands of triangular flags hanging from the ceiling, no bright murals of magical creatures on the walls could ever disguise this unpleasant sense of unhomeliness.

Hermione went past the reception desk, the witch – used to seeing her there – letting her in without questions, and stepped through a marble archway that opened into a wide corridor. The doors on either side gave to small dormitories, playrooms, classrooms, and infirmaries. Even though children's voices and laughter could be heard in the distance, the same unease floated everywhere and sent a chill running down Hermione's spine. Nurses in old pink robes strode up and down the hallway, some of them holding the hand of a crying child, and nodded to greet her. She hurried to the end of the corridor, where a door opened on a large drawing room.

Children, aged from five to fifteen, were scattered throughout the room, sitting on the carpeted floor or on high seats in front of easel paintings. Their hands and their whole bodies in general were, despite their aprons, splattered with gouache and watercolor, but they all looked rather cheerful. Luna was supposed to supervise them, but Hermione spotted her sitting in the middle of a circle of the younger children while they smeared blue and purple paint all over her clear hair.

Still unsure about the reason for her visit, Hermione lingered in the door frame, hesitating to signal her presence to Luna. She really did not want to tell anybody about Malfoy; it was a huge risk to take. But she thought about Ginny leaving, and then, all her letters to Harry she had never gotten a response to came to mind, and her chest tightened so badly that, for a second, the young woman found herself unable to breathe. She needed someone to know, only not to feel so lost and alone. And if there was somebody in this world who could understand, it was Luna. Raising a tentative hand, she waved to the blond girl.

After Luna had called a nurse to look after the children in her absence, they left the drawing room and exited through another door that gave to an inner courtyard. It looked like a small, circular school playground with its wooden benches and the plane trees planted all around. They cast an additional shadow with the walls of the Children's Home towering over it, and the place was thus rather dark. It was drizzling outside, but the raindrops never hit the tiled ground, a Shield Charm making them vanish before they even reached the top of the trees. Hermione and Luna sat down on a bench, Luna wrapping a knitted scarf around her shoulders.

"I went to the Burrow this morning," started Hermione. "Did Ginny tell you about the Holyhead Harpies?"

"She did," smiled Luna dreamily.

"I'm glad she finally found something to take her mind off things."

Hermione shifted, wondering how exchanging banalities could get her to the announcement that a Death Eater on the run was currently staying in her bedroom and to the hair-rising reasons behind it. But as always, Luna was the one to cut straight to the subject.

"But you are not happy she is leaving. Because something important is going on," she stated. "Do you want to tell me?"

"Err… Yes," hummed Hermione, frowning at her hands clasped in her lap.

"Is it something illegal? It's okay; I won't tell anybody."

Luna's smile was soft and serene as though they were talking about the weather, and Hermione stared at her with wide eyes for a moment, as always slightly abashed by her straightforwardness. She doubted she could ever really get used to it. It comforted her however in the idea that she had come to the right person. And suddenly, it was as though a dam between her brain and her mouth was giving way, everything she was battling to keep inside pouring out in an unbridled flow. She talked about everything that had happened after the trial the day before, about Malfoy following her to her house and asking for her help, about her letting him in and locking him inside her room, about her fear that he might hurt her or Nathaniel, that they might get caught by the Ministry, and despite all of this, her decision not to isolate him. At the last moment, she decided to leave out the part about the Horcruxes, sliding over the reasons Malfoy asked for her help and hoping that Luna wouldn't pry.

"… I'm not even sure he is sane! But I couldn't say no… I feel so stupid now… I don't have the right to put Nathaniel at risk like this. But it's Malfoy, Luna! You know? I look at him, and I see the boy in school… Before all this hell broke loose… I'm not saying he has ever been a good person, but I can't say no and practically condemn him to be kissed by a Dementor just because he is a prejudiced jerk… Of course I know it's more than that now. He is a Death Eater… But we don't even know what he really did…"

Hermione buried her face in her hands, her elbows resting on her knees, breathless after her tirade and feeling cold, trying to find peace in the darkness behind her closed eyelids, and the heat of her own breath soothing her. Next to her, Luna was silent. Hermione was afraid to look at her but suddenly felt the girl's hand on her back, rubbing gently.

"What do you need? Do you need me to look after him? Do you want me to take him to my home? I'm sure Dad wouldn't notice if I made him stay in the attic. He isn't paying much attention to anything lately."

Hermione did not know whether to cry or laugh; Luna – the girl ready to shelter a Death Eater without questions to help her friend. She squeezed her in her arms, chuckling shakily in the crook of her shoulder.

"I just needed to tell someone. I just need someone to know. If something happens to me, at least you could go and tell the Ministry."

"You should tell Harry, Hermione."

"I know… I will. I just… I just don't know how to tell him. I don't want to drag him into something he is trying so hard to escape. He has the right to take some time off after all that happened."

Part of her resentment must have filtered in her voice, because Luna pulled away and gave her a sharp look.

"And when are _you_ going to take some time off?" she asked.

Hermione looked at her with puzzlement.

"You had been taking care of Ginny when she was at her worst. You had been helping Mr. and Mrs. Weasley through the first months, and they let you without ever seeming to realize that you lost Ron too. You are taking care of Nat. And all of this without taking a break from your work or your studies. Who is going to take care of _you_ , Hermione?"

"You are taking care of me," answered the young woman with a poor smile.

"You won't let me. I can see it in your eyes: you are already regretting you told me, and the only thing you want now is to leave."

There was no reproach in her voice. Luna just stood up and dusted the back of her skirt while Hermione watched her sheepishly.

"Go on," smiled the blond girl. "But if Draco becomes too much of a 'prejudiced jerk', just promise to tell me, okay?"

"Okay," nodded Hermione.

She followed Luna back inside the building, still scared, still tired, still angry, but feeling a little less alone.

 **/**

When Draco woke up again, a throbbing pain was splitting his forehead and crushing his temples. His limbs still felt like cotton, but his heart was pounding so forcefully against his ribcage that he could feel its beats reverberate in his stomach, almost making him sick. He had overslept. After months and months of sleep deprivation, he had been knocked out for nearly 24 hours, waking up only once or twice, and had managed to oversleep so badly that now his whole body was aching and fighting to snap out of his comatose slumber. Breathing heavily to calm the mounting nausea from his sudden awakening, the young man shifted, and bracing himself on his elbows, propped himself up.

He would have been hard pressed to tell what time of the day it was; it could have been noon or the beginning of the evening for that matter. The bleak, grayish light streaming through the window on his left was hardly enough to light the farthest corners of the room. The drizzle had turned into a heavy rain that poured down on London relentlessly and shrouded the city in a thick gray blur. As he gazed dazedly outside the window, Draco could barely make out the silhouette of the houses across the street; they looked like a dark wall beyond all the cascading water.

He sat upright, running a hand through his hair to brush the long strands off his forehead, and buried his face in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing between his brows to ease the pain. The apartment was dead quiet now, the only sound disrupting the silence being the rain thundering loudly against the window pane and the roof overhead. Granger was probably gone, and it was best this way; he wouldn't have to hear her nervous pacing on the other side of the door, and even though he had been deeply asleep, he was sure he had heard her open the door to check on him several times the day before.

Draco swung his legs over the edge of the bed, tossing the blanket to the side, and stood up. The room swam before his eyes for a second, either from his headache or his body adjusting to the standing position. The numbness was dissipating. An old pain surged through his lower back that was bruised from always sleeping uncomfortably curled up on the hard ground. He usually didn't pay any attention to it, but after one night in a proper bed, it shot through him like a bullet. As he made a few unsteady steps to stretch his legs, his eyes fell on a tray standing by the door of the bedroom and covered with a white cloth napkin. Apparently, Granger had come to deposit some food before leaving.

He bent over to pick up the heavy tray carefully - immediately feeling a pleasant heat spread up his fingers from the charm that kept the food warm for him - and went to sit on the edge of the bed, setting the tray on his lap and removing the napkin. His stomach growled loudly, hunger sparking to life as he uncovered a plate of scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes and beans, a couple of buttered toasts, a cup of tea and another one of coffee (still steaming hot and diffusing a mouth-watering aroma), and a small bowl of chopped fruit. Grabbing a toast, he bit off nearly half of it, but the moment he attempted to swallow, barely chewing, he coughed and winced from the searing pain in his throat; it was as though he had swallowed a mouthful of glass splinters. Another thing he was usually too desperate to eat to notice. He sipped the tea, which was minty and honeyed and soothed his sore throat, and forced himself to eat slowly.

His gaze wandered around the bedroom as he did, examining it attentively for the first time. Granger's room was the most boring place one could imagine. It was spotless and arranged with a manic precision. He even doubted that there once had been something to tidy at all; there was a sense of sterile emptiness that radiated off the plain, light blue wallpaper and the gray carpeted floor. The furniture was minimalist; a tall wardrobe against the wall on his right, a small nightstand with a lamp between it and the head of the double bed, and on the left – a dressing table with nothing on it and its seat. Thin, blue and white striped curtains framed the only window. Two doors were opening in the wall opposite the bed; one leading to the adjoining bathroom and the other to the rest of the apartment. There were no ornaments, no pictures on the walls, no visible personal effects, except for the high pile of books rising near the bed head.

He had always pictured Granger as obsessively perfectionist and frigid, but certainly not devoid of personality. She always seemed to make a point of parading her beliefs and showing who she was to the rest of the world, regardless of whether they wanted to see it or not. But while he vaguely remembered having noticed a shelf full of pictures and other attempts to decorate the living room of her apartment, her bedroom was almost screaming with the desire to erase anything that could have been considered as representative of its occupant. Once, he might have been tempted to look through her wardrobe or the drawers of her dressing table, but now he couldn't care less whether Granger had something to hide or was just a very boring person, as long as he had this room to stay in, with a decent bed, and a roof and four walls to shelter him.

When he was done eating, Draco put the tray at the foot of the bed and went to the bathroom. He stopped in the doorway, running a slightly haggard gaze around the place, over the pearly blue tiled walls, the sparkling white bathtub and sink, the clean bath sheets piled on top of a small cupboard in a corner. A bathroom. He had a bathroom. Without thinking twice and ignoring the pain shooting through his shoulders, Draco reached backwards to grab a fistful of the fabric of the t-shirt he was wearing and pulled it over his head. He could count on his fingers the number of times he had properly washed himself over the past seven months he had spent on the run. He had learned a great deal about the Muggle world, and the fact that there were public showers in the main train stations, accessible for a few Muggle coins, was certainly one of the most useful things he had discovered. But the occasions had been rare, and he couldn't risk attracting too much attention by regularly returning to the same places. Most of the time, he had been reduced to sneaking into the restroom of some sordid Muggle pub to clean himself more or less perfunctorily over a filthy sink, with a piece of soap he was disgusted to even look at.

Draco tugged down his pajama bottoms, letting the loose fabric fall around his ankles, before stepping out of them and kneeling by the tub to turn the taps. A cloud of steam erupted out of the tub when the hot jet of water crashed against its cold bottom and flushed the skin of his face and chest. Pushing a metallic knob near the faucets, he directed the water to the wall-mounted shower head that sputtered before letting out a hot cascade. Cautiously stepping over the rim, Draco climbed into the tub and crouched under the shower to turn the red tap to its full, until drops bounced off the tiled walls all around and splashed the floor, and furious streams swirled at the bottom of the tub around his feet.

Draco sat back, letting himself go against the side of the tub, his legs half bent as it was too small to outstretch them fully and his arms lying limply at his sides. He rested his head on the rim of the tub, offering his face to the dozens of tiny jets of water falling from the shower head right above him, and closed his eyes. He felt the hot droplets of water crash against his cheeks, nose, chin and chest. It soaked his hair and streamed down the sides of his throat, running down and around his body, softening and numbing his skin until the scorching bite of heat felt merely warm. He barely had the time to breathe in between the drops drowning his face. He took small, sharp breaths when no jets of water hit his nose, and his lungs felt heavy from the heated air thick with steam. He focused on the water massaging his skin, the thundering of it against the ceramic all around, the steady drumming of his heart inside his chest… Slowing down…

He could have stayed there forever, until dissolving into a warm liquid mass devoid of all senses and only vaguely aware of its own existence. He was sure, however, that even if he took three showers a day, he would never get rid of the awful feeling of being dirty that stuck to his skin even though he had scrubbed himself pink and raw the previous day. The horrible acrid stench of his dirty self he had long come not to notice now seemed to be caught in his nostrils and throat even though it wasn't there anymore. The longer he stayed in the bathtub, the more he became aware of its uncomfortable hardness under his already aching body. His fingertips were starting to prune unpleasantly, and the heat, the thick air and the loud splashing of water made his headache even worse. When his blood started thumping in his ears and the room spun, Draco turned off the water and got heavily out of the tub.

He dried himself with a bath sheet, rubbing until it stung, and put back on the t-shirt and pajama pants, before thoroughly brushing his teeth with the new toothbrush Granger had given him. He was surprised his teeth did not start falling off after months of more-than-poor hygiene, and he was determined not to let it happen now. As he pulled the door of the bathroom, he heard the other door open, and Granger entered the bedroom. She froze, surprised to find him only a few feet away from her, and promptly took a few steps back. Draco leaned against the door frame of the bathroom, watching her as she twiddled nervously with a small paper bag she was holding and cast quick glances around the room. She had obviously been outside; her cheeks were rosy from the cold, and her hair she had let loose was flying around her head, charged with static electricity from the sudden change of temperature. She eyed the empty tray standing at the foot of the bed, and a hesitant smiled tugged at the corners of her mouth; if she did feel any revulsion or fear, she hid it well, even though her posture was still guarded.

"I didn't know whether you were a tea or a coffee person," she said, motioning at the empty cups on the tray.

She was trying to make conversation. _Pity_. The pity was definitely still there. Draco folded his arms on his chest and considered her impassively.

"Coffee," he rasped out. "But tea was good… For my throat."

Granger's brows furrowed a little, and her smile was replaced with an unmistakable expression of worried kindness that made him want to slap her to remind her who she was talking to.

"I'll get you a Pepper-up potion this afternoon," she nodded. "Here; I bought you a razor and shaving cream," she added, handing him the paper bag and a pair of scissors.

He snatched it from her hands, impatient to get rid of the uncomfortably spiky growth on his jaw and over his upper lip. Granger followed him into the bathroom and perched on the closed toilet lid, watching him as he took the razor and the tube of shaving cream out of the drugstore bag. He first had to chop off tufts of rough hairs with the scissors to get to the length a razor could take. For long minutes, the bathroom was filled with the clicking sound of the scissors as Draco stood before the mirror above the sink. When his beard was reduced to an uneven stubble, he proceeded to lather the shaving cream on the lower half of his face. He had lost the habit of doing it, and his movements were clumsy as he dragged the razor against his cheek. Several times, crimson drops swelled along the edge of his jaw and on his Adam's apple, where the blade had ripped the skin.

Granger's edgy presence behind his back unnerved him to no end. Her mistrust or the lingering silence did not bother him, but nervousness radiated off her in waves and filled the room the same way steam did earlier. He could see her reflection in the mirror; her gaze was flickering around the bathroom only to come back and rest on him every few seconds. She was sitting primly upright, her hands clasped in her lap, but her left knee, hooked over the other leg, was jerking up and down as though it was tied to the string of an invisible puppeteer. Turning the tap on to rinse the razor, Draco glanced in the mirror again, and this time, met her wide eyes staring back at him. Granger averted her gaze immediately, and her foot started tapping on the floor in rhythm with her jerking knee.

"Who is he to you? The kid?" asked Draco in an attempt to distract her enough so she would stop squirming.

Granger turned back to him, looking surprised by his question. She was probably now thinking he was actually interested. Clenching his jaw, Draco focused on removing the last clusters of rough hairs under his chin, glaring at the mirror.

"His parents are in a magically-induced coma in Saint Mungo's to prevent the damages done to their brains by a curse from spreading until a cure is found," answered Granger at last. "He was supposed to go to the Children's Home, but I offered to look after him."

Draco paused and quirked an eyebrow as he peered at her reflection in the mirror.

"Did you know them?"

Granger shifted uneasily.

"N-No… It's just that he needed someone to take care of him, and I don't think they would've done it properly there… He is… different."

Draco felt a pressure around his lower ribs, almost like a mounting desire to laugh. Of course: Saint Granger, helping the poor and the outcasts and getting herself off on martyrdom! He threw the razor into the sink and washed his face.

"What's wrong with him?" he snorted.

"There is nothing wrong with him," she snapped and her eyes flashed dangerously.

Choosing to ignore the sudden harshness in her voice, Draco took the scissors again and gathered a few damp strands of his hair between his fingers, lifting them as he tried to find a good angle to cut them off. He didn't care about the aestheticism of the result; all he wanted was not to have them falling before his eyes or brushing against his shoulders anymore.

"Wait," said Granger suddenly.

He glanced at her as she moved from her spot.

"If you want- If you want, I can cut your hair. I've done it a couple of times last year for Harry and…" her voice trailed off and she shrugged, a shadow passing briefly on her features. "I'm not very good at it, but I think it would still be better than if you do it yourself."

Draco turned to her, still holding the scissors, and she stepped forward, extending her hand tentatively to take them. She had a very curious expression upon her face, and suddenly it dawned on him that she was expecting him to flinch and reject her offer from disgust at the idea of her touching him. It was almost laughable. He felt bile burn his throat. At least she, unlike him, could still call herself a human, no matter how questionable her status in the Wizarding world might have been. He stared at her for a few more seconds, wondering if she even realized just how low he had fallen on the ladder of living creatures. Surely she did; he had seen the revulsion etched on her face the previous day. Without a word, he shoved the scissors into her hand and turned his back to her, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the bathroom. He heard her release her breath but couldn't tell whether it was a sigh of relief or whether she was bracing herself and already regretting her offer.

"Okay…" she muttered. "Okay…"

Draco remained perfectly still when the young woman squatted next to him with cautious movements as though she was approaching a wild animal. There was a moment of awkward fidgeting as Granger's free hand reached hesitantly for his hair without her being able to bring herself to touch him. She sighed again, and he sensed her draw even nearer when she finally dropped to her knees behind him, his back only a few inches away from her body. He felt her tug on the hair at the back of his head as she gathered it between her fingers, and a second later, the scissors clicked, letting a few damp blond strands fall onto the floor between them.

During the half an hour that followed, Draco couldn't tell for whom of them two it was the more of an ordeal; Granger kept prowling and crawling around him, huffing and sighing, her knees bumping against his back and his legs, as she tried to find the right angles to chop off his hair, her fingers brushing and pulling at it, the scissors clicking dangerously near his earlobes. He glimpsed her face, screwed in a look of intense concentration and brows furrowed, when she crouched in front of him to trim the hair falling across his forehead and on his temples.

The ceramic tiles of the floor around them were now littered with blond strands of various lengths, and some of them stuck to the fabric of Granger's blue jeans around the knees and along her shins. She crawled around him a couple more times, the scissors clicking from time to time as she did her best to even up the length of his hair, before she finally backed away to assess him critically with narrowed eyes. Draco watched suspiciously as Granger's nose crinkled and she bit her lip.

"This is the best I could do," she said at last, slipping the scissors into her back pocket. "I think…" before he could react, she suddenly reached out and mussed his hair, "if you don't comb it and leave it a bit messy, the differences in length won't be too noticeable."

But instead of withdrawing her hand, she slid it down his forehead and pressed her unpleasantly cold palm against his skin, frowning. Draco jerked away from her touch, his right hand shooting up to grab her wrist and yank it away. Granger shuddered as though she suddenly realized what she was doing and quickly freed her arm from his grip, jumping to her feet. As he stood up as well and dusted the hairs off his trousers, she rummaged through the small cupboard under the sink, her back turned to him.

"Here. You can take one of these before I can get you the potion. You've got a bit of fever," she said, regaining her composure and leaving a small jar of pills with _Aspirin_ written on it on the sink rim.

She turned around and pulled out her wand, waving it at the floor and then at her jeans to vanish the fallen hairs.

"It's almost three p.m. I'll be back in the evening with Nathaniel," she informed him, taking the razor from the sink and carefully avoiding looking at him. "Do you need me to fix you something for lunch or can you wait for dinner?"

Draco stuck his hands into the pockets of his ill-fitting pajama pants and shrugged.

"I can wait. I've just woken up and eaten. I'm not hungry."

Granger nodded.

"There are a few books in my room. You can read them if you want," she muttered, before turning away and heading for the door. "Tell me if you want me to bring you others if you don't like these."

Draco stood still, gazing after her. A few moments later, he heard the bedroom door close, and when he moved and exited the bathroom as well, he sensed the air shift and vibrate as Granger put the wards back on the other side of the door. He didn't know whether she feared for her safety or if she was convinced he would pull a runner on the first occasion. Both ideas were absurd; she and this place were his only hope, and he had risked everything staying in London to find her and get her help. Draco heard a characteristic _pop_ when Granger apparated away, and he noted that she wasn't completely isolating him inside the room with Sound-proofing Charms anymore.

 **/**

Hermione paced the kitchen, watching and occasionally stirring the contents of a steaming saucepan on the stove, taking plates out of the cupboards to put them on the table, with the impression of navigating the stage of some surrealistic play. Despite all her efforts to appear casual, she couldn't tear her gaze from the two figures sitting at the dining table, both so perfectly still that they looked like a frozen picture. Malfoy's gaze was resolutely fixed on the polished wooden surface, his hands resting on either side of his plate as though they were stuck to the table. His face was unreadable, but there was something awkward in his stiff posture, as though he was desperately trying to make himself as small as possible, which wasn't an easy thing to do with his lanky limbs and his bony yet broad shoulders. Hermione had the strong feeling his unease had everything to do with the little boy sitting at the far end of the table, two seats away on his left.

Against his habit, Nathaniel was overtly staring at this stranger who had joined them for dinner a little less than ten minutes before. They had come back from the Burrow rather late in the evening, Ginny having subdued the child into a game of Exploding Snap, and Hermione eagerly joining them, glad to see Nathaniel the liveliest he had been in a long time. The sky outside had already turned a velvety black tinged with orangey from the city lights when they had reappeared in the middle of her living-room after a short Portkey ride. It had stopped raining, and the silhouettes of the buildings, trees, and lampposts had gained in sharpness outside the tall windows. After canceling the wards on her bedroom door and telling Malfoy he was free to join them whenever he was ready, Hermione had set about preparing dinner while Nathaniel watched her quietly from his favorite spot at the table. That is until Malfoy had emerged out of her room with slow, measured steps, his whole body stiff and his gaze darting to every corner the same way he had done the previous day.

Nathaniel – usually so reluctant to look directly at anybody, and above all at strangers – now seemed absolutely fascinated. He had an expression of stern seriousness upon his small face, his big hazel eyes examining the blond man unblinkingly, his little hands gripping the table in a disturbingly mirrored posture. Hermione felt the skin at the back of her neck prickle as she waited anxiously for some kind of reaction from either of them, looking out of the corner of her eye while she busied over the stovetop.

"What's your name?"

The little boy had whispered, his shy voice almost drowned out by the bubbling sounds of the contents of the saucepan and Hermione's spoon scraping against the metallic bottom as she stirred, but both adults jumped up as though he had shouted. Hermione whirled around to glance at Malfoy, who, instead of answering, immediately looked up at her. His cold steely eyes silently called for her to intervene, before lingering for a second on the child, who was still waiting for his answer, and flickering back to the surface of the table.

"D-Dorian. His name is Dorian," answered Hermione with a hesitant smile.

Malfoy's brow quirked a little.

"Mione said you are staying with us because you don't want to be with other people," deadpanned Nathaniel, not averting his gaze from Malfoy.

Hermione looked at the little boy with mingled surprise and curiosity: he seemed completely oblivious to the awkwardness floating in the air and was behaving with an unusual boldness before this man he had just met. Again, Malfoy raised his gaze to her, this time slightly annoyed and his upper lip twitching. Hermione gave him an _it-won't-kill-you-to-talk-to-him_ look, even though she dreaded all kind of interaction between the child and Malfoy. The latter slowly turned to Nathaniel.

"It's other people who wouldn't appreciate my presence among them," he said curtly, looking the boy square in the eye before turning away.

Hermione held her breath, but Nathaniel seemed unabashed.

"Okay," he nodded with an expression of solemn understanding.

Cutting short to any further potential questions, Hermione turned off the burner and transferred the contents of the saucepan into a large serving dish she put in the middle of the table. Serving Nathaniel first, she piled a small hill of spaghetti onto his plate, cut them to the shortest possible bits, covered them with a generous amount of tomato sauce and added half a dozen meatballs on top. The child took his plate from her hands with eagerness and dug in without waiting. After filling Malfoy's plate and finally her own, Hermione sat across the Slytherin, her gaze shifting discretely between him and the child as they all ate in silence. Nathaniel seemed to be the only one to be genuinely unaffected by the atmosphere of strangeness reigning in the room, even if it was hard to decipher Malfoy's feelings behind his expressionless mask. Hermione, for her part, felt a dull pain settle at the base of her neck and between her shoulder blades from the nervousness that contracted every muscle in her body.

"Why do you have scars?" Nathaniel broke the silence once again.

The already tense atmosphere almost crackled with electricity. Hermione froze, and her panicky gaze flickered between Malfoy and the child, who was now looking insistently at the Slytherin's left arm, bare under the short sleeve of his t-shirt: the sharp white light of the kitchen lamp overhead bathed the marred skin of his forearm and revealed an intricate pattern made of clearer and slightly swollen skin. It was now nearly impossible to recognize the outline of the faded Dark Mark, and for a child who had never seen it, the shape certainly looked like nothing familiar. Nathaniel's question was perfectly innocent, but Malfoy's unreadable expression turned into a scowl and Hermione saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. Quickly casting him a half-apologetic, half-warning look, she leaned sideways to put a gentle hand on Nathaniel's shoulder.

"Nat… You can't just ask people why they have scars," she said in a quiet yet firm voice.

Glancing at Malfoy, she saw him stare intently at his half-empty plate, ignoring them. Nathaniel frowned.

"Okay…" he muttered.

He wiped his plate clean with a bread crumb and chewed thoughtfully.

"Then why are you so rude?"

Hermione nearly choked on the spaghetti she had just put inside her mouth.

"Why are you such an ill-bred, meddling kid?" hissed the Slytherin, pushing his chair back to stand up and flashing a nasty look at the little boy before Hermione could hastily gulp down her food and intervene.

Horrified, she leaped off her chair, taking a protective step toward Nathaniel, and opened her mouth, but the child only blinked at Malfoy with an imperturbable look and shrugged before speaking again:

"Mione says you have to finish what's on your plate if you want to leave the table."

He slid off his seat, holding his own empty plate with both hands, handed it to Hermione, and trotted out of the kitchen area into the living-room, where he settled on the sofa and grabbed the remote control to switch on Hermione's old television set that stood in the corner. The catchy music and distorted voices of a cartoon film filled the room. Hermione glared at Malfoy; he stood still, gazing after Nathaniel with a slightly stunned expression and looking more out-of-place than ever.

" _I told you not to talk to him!_ " whispered Hermione furiously through gritted teeth.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her.

"You told me not to talk to him if he doesn't talk to me. He was talking to me."

Sighing in consternation, Hermione started gathering the dishes from the table to put them into the sink. Malfoy watched her without moving.

"You didn't like it?" she asked, noticing that he had eaten the pasta but had left his meat untouched.

"I don't eat meat."

Hermione paused, surprised.

"I didn't know you were vegetarian," she said.

"I'm not… I- I just don't eat meat."

She looked at him with curiosity: the muscle in his cheek was twitching again and his eyes had this faraway, slightly crazed look. A movement caught her attention, and her gaze slid down his body to his hands; they were trembling spasmodically, his fingers tapping against the side of his legs.

"Hmm… Okay…" she mumbled.

As if suddenly realizing her presence, Malfoy quickly folded his arms, clasping his hands under his armpits to hide them. Hermione turned away, filling the sink with soapy water and pretending she didn't notice anything. She was musing about the logic behind his strange reactions to seemingly harmless and meaningless things when she sensed rather than heard him move right behind her. Her whole body went taut to repress an instinctive urge to jump away, and her wet hand covered with bubbles of soap flew to the pocket of her jeans where her wand was, but Malfoy only put the now empty serving dish next to the sink and quickly backed away a few steps. She saw him lean against the worktop out of the corner of her eye.

"Dorian?" he said.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheeks, feeling a blush creep up her neck. Of course, it could have been a perfectly random choice of a name. But it wasn't exactly the truth; when it came to her mind, she couldn't help but think of one of her latest reads and draw the parallel between the eponymous central character and Malfoy, or rather his situation.

"Well, it's the first name starting with 'D' I thought of," she replied dismissively, plunging the last dish into the sink full of water.

Malfoy's voice was merely a raspy whisper on her left:

"Wilde's depiction of the problem is obviously romanticized. But I admit it would've been so much easier if I only had to stab my Horcrux with a dagger to get my soul back."

Frozen, the towel she was drying her hands with still clutched between her fingers, Hermione gaped at him. For the first time, a shadow of the old Draco Malfoy - the insufferable schoolboy she remembered - permeated on his gaunt face as he raised a mocking eyebrow at her, and his lips briefly curled into a mirthless smirk.

"I saw the book in the pile in your room," he said.

"You know - … You've read ' _The Picture of Dorian Gray'_?" asked Hermione, gawking.

"Do you think me uncultivated, Granger?" he sneered.

"I- I didn't think you knew… I didn't think you were reading this kind of things in the Wizarding world," she muttered.

She did know that Muggle literature was available in wizarding bookshops and even at the Hogwarts' Library. ' _In the Pureblood world'_ would have been more appropriate to get her point.

"You mean Muggle-written things? Classics are classics everywhere, Granger. And unfortunately, the Wizarding world is sorely lacking good writers."

"Oh," was all Hermione could answer to that.

"Don't be embarrassed," smirked Malfoy. "It was a good one. Very fitting. Although a bit ironic, really."

The young woman searched his face, wary and curious at the same time after this first more or less normal conversation. But his face shut almost immediately, only wincing briefly when he coughed. Remembering the vial of Pepper-up potion she had brought from the Burrow for him, Hermione took out her wand and waved it to summon the small bottle, which flew out of the pocket of her coat hanging in the entrance hallway. She caught it in midair and handed it to Malfoy.

"Pepper-up potion," she said.

He took it with a nod, and before she could say anything else, strode out of the kitchen area. He crossed the living-room without a glance back for her or Nathaniel, who was still watching his evening cartoons, and disappeared inside her bedroom, closing the door silently behind him. It was as though the air had suddenly become more breathable. Hermione felt like Malfoy's presence drained her of all her energy. Sighing, she moved to the living-room, settling next to the little boy on the sofa.

"Do you want me to read you something? Or play the piano?" she asked, forcing a warm smile to her lips.

 **/**

Draco stirred in the middle of the bed, tossing the blankets to the side and pulling them back over him right away. The temperature of his body was completely out of control. One moment he was sweating like in a furnace, and the next he was shivering from head to toe. The potion he had just taken was burning everything inside of him; in his nostrils, it felt as though he had inhaled peppermint essence, and in his throat – as though he had swallowed a glass of boiling water. Steam was coming out of his ears, and he was unable to find a comfortable position to sleep. The first hour after drinking the Pepper-up Potion was always an ordeal.

Granger had started playing piano again, and the obnoxious kid was uttering exuberant vocalizations every now and then, snapping him to consciousness every time his eyelids started to close drowsily. The anger he felt when he thought about Granger matched the scorching heat resulting from the potion. She had been looking at him like at some new kind of a rather nasty magical creature she had never seen before. He only hoped the help she would give him would be worth enduring her judgmental looks.

The music had stopped. At first, he thought that the apartment had fallen completely silent, but then, he heard a woman's voice through the ringing in his ears. She talked and talked again, and after a few minutes of her droning on, he understood that Granger was reading something to the boy. He found himself trying to catch the words, but she wasn't speaking loud enough, even though he could hear her trying to imitate different voices and intonations depending on the characters speaking or the part of the story. There was something melodious to her voice, but it did not unnerve him like the piano music for some reason did. There was a certain peacefulness in it, a steadiness that washed over him like waves washing the shore, rising and falling, quiet like a background noise but ever-present, eroding his thoughts that lost in sharpness as he slowly drifted to sleep.


	4. Striking chords

**Chapter 4**

 **Striking chords**

In the spinning blackness obscuring his vision, even the hard ground beneath his body feels like it is falling away. He presses himself against it, his muscles tense and his nerve endings humming with residual pain. Maybe if he doesn't move, if he appears to have lost consciousness, they would stop. It has only been seconds since silence fell, since his own screams stopped echoing off the walls, but it feels like an eternity. He waits, his mind racing so fast that he is not even able to count the seconds. Nobody is saying a word, but he feels their gazes on him. Maybe they would stop… If he just lies there, his eyes closed and barely breathing.

He focuses on the floor beneath him. One of his arms is spread out across the carpet on his left, but he feels the cold marble underneath his stomach, through the damp fabric of his shirt, and against his right cheek. It's smooth and sticky with something warm; he has probably broken the skin on his temple when he fell. The pain is however not enough to draw his attention away from the one in his back. And just as he thinks again about his back, pain sears through it with renewed intensity while a heavy slick mass slithers over him, across his lower back, pinning him even more to the floor. He hears a low hiss right next to his face as the giant snake unwinds its coils over his bloodied back, and it takes every last bit of his wavering consciousness not to snap his eyes open as he senses the monster circle around him.

"Stand up, Draco. Stand up and face your Master's disappointment…" cackles a shrill woman's voice somewhere high above him.

His aunt's heels clatter against the marble tiles of the floor as she goes to stand next to his head. _No… He isn't there… He isn't there…_

"Draco…"

Another woman's voice. Soft, quiet, quivering. She is not even near him; she calls from the other end of the vast drawing room, where she stands next to Father. But his body reacts against his will and he flinches. He knows his leg moved. And for the split second his eyelids flutter open, the picture of the drawing room imprints on his retina: the huge fireplace on his right casts a dancing, strangely warm light all around, and he can see the feet and the hems of the robes of the people standing around him, but not too close either – all a cautious five feet away, except for his aunt. Now they know he is here.

"It's the third time, Draco."

The Dark Lord is speaking slowly, as though he is tired. If it were actually possible to catch some human emotion in his cold hissing, he would almost sound genuinely disappointed.

"It's the third time you are failing your initiation, my boy. You know you can't count on Severus to do it for you every time, don't you?"

Snickers run around the room, and he hears Mother sob.

"I'm starting to think you might not be so eager to prove yourself and take your place in our ranks. Or maybe… Maybe you don't know the spell?"

The audience howls with laughter, drowning out Mother's whimper.

"Let me teach you. Bella, help the boy."

One of his aunt's hands grabs him by the scruff of his neck, while the other tugs at his hair, her sharp nails scraping his scalp, to wrench his head up and make him face the other end of the room, where Wormtail is towering over the kneeling form of a teenage boy. The Muggle seems petrified with sheer terror. His eyes are nearly popping out of his head as he stares unblinkingly at the scene before him.

" _-Avada Kedavra!"_

Avery barely has the time to jump sideways as green lightning rips the air across the room, hitting the Muggle boy squarely in the chest. At first, his frozen body doesn't even move, his limbs locked, and then, with an almost comical slowness, he collapses sideways and lands with a thud at Wormtail's feet. Bellatrix's hand releases him, and he slumps limply back onto the floor.

"See, Draco? It's this simple. _Avada Kedavra!"_ shrieks the Dark Lord again.

His high-pitched laughter fills the drawing room, quickly followed by the snickering of the others, while his own body starts as though a Cruciatus has been released through it. But this time, the curse hits the gold-framed mirror over the fireplace on his right, and a shower of glass splinters falls on and around him, some of them lodging into the open gash barring his spine in his lower back, sparking his nerve endings ablaze. But it's the dead silence that falls in the room immediately after that is the worst. He senses his Master approaching with every fiber as he lies facedown, his fingers curling against the floor and gripping the carpet as if it were the only thing keeping him from darting up and running for it.

"Three times, Draco. There will be no fourth," whispers the Dark Lord, and his voice creeps under his skull and slithers through his very mind, sending uncontrollable shivers of dread through his limbs.

One after the other, the two other scars on his back – one across his shoulder blades and the other barring his lower ribs – reopen like slashed by an invisible sword as his Master whips his wand to punish him for his failure. He feels his own hot blood soak his shirt and trickle down the sides of his body even before the pain itself comes. And then it comes.

His forehead bangs against the floor as he screams, and somewhere in the distance, Mother's pleading wailing answers him. It's a punishment for her as well. His whole family is punished because he is a failure. He bites the inside of his cheeks to stop screaming until the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth. Everything is a whirlwind of distorted sounds; the Death Eaters laughing, his aunt yelling at Mother to pull herself together, the noise of the Dark Lord disapparating as he leaves him to his agony, his own moaning, and the blood ringing in his ears… It all swirls, scatters and blends, fading and turning into a quiet melody.

Suddenly, he senses that there is nobody around him anymore. He is still lying on his stomach, but the surface beneath his naked upper-body is soft, and his face is tucked against a velvety pillow. His back is still aching awfully, although the pain is dull instead of scorching. He manages to open an eye – the one that isn't pressed against the cushion. Through the crack between his eyelids he can see a slice of Mother's sitting room; he is lying on the loveseat, one of his arms hanging to the floor, his knuckles brushing against the polished cherrywood boards. From the wet warmth on his wounded back, he knows she has covered him with plasters of diluted Essence of Dittany. He is allowed nothing more – nothing that could prevent the wounds from scarring.

Mother is sitting at the grand piano between him and the crackling fireplace, her back turned to him. Her frail shoulders are shaking, but her hands are steady and she plays without false notes. The fire dancing in the hearth baths the room in orangey light and illuminates the tall Christmas tree on the right of the fireplace, the silver and golden baubles sparkling and shimmering.

This is when he knows he is dreaming. The scene he is watching is the result of two superposed memories: in both of them, he had been lying on the loveseat while Mother played piano for him. But there were no Christmas trees at the Manor that last winter he came back for holidays in his seventh year, only to fail the Dark Lord for the third time in the task He had given him. He was a weakling. Unable to kill a mere Muggle.

 _There will be no fourth._

He doesn't want to think about it now. He only wants to listen to Mother playing. He knows he is safe, for now. She only plays when the Dark Lord is away. He listens to her, clinging onto every familiar note of Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_ he knows by heart. The slow, low melody flows through him and vibrates inside his chest. His dreaming, half-conscious self knows it's the last time she is playing for him. But his memory self lying on the sofa doesn't. So he just listens…

 _Merry Christmas. Welcome home._

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

The worst part of his nightmares was the excruciatingly long time it took him to awake from them. It was like being pulled to the surface out of deep, dark waters. Without surprise, Draco opened his eyes to the sound of Granger playing piano in the living-room. It was a ritual of hers. A week had passed, and there hadn't been a single morning he did not hear her play upon awakening, either early at dawn before she left for the Ministry or later in the morning during the week end. He was almost regretting she had decided not to cast any Silencing Charms on the bedroom, because he knew her playing was the very reason the nightmares had started in the first place – four days before, on Friday morning, when the diffuse unease he had been feeling through the first days had turned into nightly dreadful visions. There could be no other explanation, as until then and for now nearly eleven months, he had purely and simply stopped dreaming.

Breathing heavily and shivering, Draco sat up, peeling his t-shirt drenched in cold sweat off his skin as he pulled it over his head. He clenched his fists, the veins on his forearms swelling, and tried to inhale deeply, but it was as though iron chains constricted his chest and crushed his windpipe. The room was shrouded in darkness; the late winter dawn hadn't come yet. His bare skin looked a bluish white, like the bed sheets around him, and was striped with orange in the slanting beams of light that streamed through the window and came from the lampposts in the street outside. He waited for the melody on the other side of the door to die out, and then listened as Granger bustled as quietly as possible in the kitchen – coffeemaker buzzing, dishes clanking every now and then, the refrigerator door opening and closing with a soft suction sound. His heartbeat was gradually slowing down, but he still felt cold drops slide between his shoulder blades and down his chest.

There was a discrete shuffling on the other side of the door, and a shift in the air indicated that Granger was removing the wards. Draco quickly drew the blankets up to his chin to hide the jagged lines streaking his torso, the scars looking even whiter in the eerie half-light of the room. The doorknob turned and the door silently swung on its hinges, letting in a column of bright artificial light. The young man raised a hand before his eyes, blinking, as Granger's silhouette appeared in the doorway. She stopped, holding her wand in one hand and balancing a laden tray on her other forearm.

"Oh… You aren't sleeping," she whispered with a question in her voice.

Draco grunted in response. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden light, he could see one of her usual navy blue tailored skirts she wore to work every day, topped with a pale blue shirt. The only fanciful touch was her black tights that sparkled discretely from the thin silver threads woven vertically into them. She did not have her shoes on. He had noticed that Granger enjoyed walking around barefoot. He waited for her to put down the tray with his breakfast and leave, but she lingered hesitantly on the threshold. Her face remained hidden in the shadows, shielded from the light by her wild mane of curls she hadn't tied into a ponytail this morning. She squinted at him.

"Are you okay?" she asked in a low voice not to wake the kid in the bedroom across the living room.

"Yeah."

"Umm… Okay. I'll come back in a few hours to fix you something for lunch and take Nat' away."

There was no need to tell him that; he was now used to her little daily schedule, but Granger had the annoying mania to try and make conversation with him. So he just said again:

"Yeah."

"Okay… You have a nice morning then," she muttered, leaning to put the tray onto a chair standing by the door and closing it carefully behind her as she left.

The air vibrated when she cast the spells before stilling again, and shortly after, Draco heard the characteristic _pop_ of Granger disapparating for work. He did not lie back. His nights ended with his nightmares. And then, it was always the same routine; breakfast, showering, brushing his teeth, dressing. Granger had guessed his size right when she bought him some Muggle clothes. But it wasn't a matter of length rather than filling them. The black shirt was hanging rather miserably off his shoulders, and he had to tighten the belt of his dark jeans as much as possible. His shape wasn't however as catastrophic as a week before. Granger had taken on feeding him whenever she could, sometimes preparing him a full-course meal between lunch and dinner when she had the possibility to get back from work in between.

Draco exited the bathroom. Its light bathed the bedroom through the open door, and as soon as he switched it off, all the colors in the room faded to shades of gray. The day was dawning outside the window, the first rays of sunlight struggling to pierce the thick cloud layer hanging low over London, and once though, they were cold and bleak – barely enough to make up for the now extinguished lampposts. Draco went to the window and snatched a book he had left on the ledge the day before. He settled on the windowsill, his back braced against the edge of the wall on the right, his legs half bent, and his feet propped against the wall opposite. He gazed outside the dull glass speckled with raindrops at the rapidly awakening streets and the glinting slate roofs of the city that stretched out of view until disappearing in the light drizzle.

He turned distractedly with his thumb the pages of the book in his lap; he had picked it from the pile rising by Granger's bed on his second day here but had never actually opened it. It was something about killing a mockingbird from the title on the muddy green paperback. After long minutes, Draco caught himself counting the 76th raindrop crashing against the windowpane. The monotony and the void of his days contrasted sharply with the brutality and the restlessness of his nights. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the young man tried to justify such torpor as an aftermath of his wearisome months wandering in the streets. But it wasn't as though he had been up to much before arriving at Granger's either.

The fact was that he did not live: he existed. And the warmth, the sheltering walls, the provided food made it all the easier to detach himself from the world and to only exist. He even failed to be actually concerned or anxious about Granger's breakthroughs on his case. She had told him that, at the moment, the issue wasn't exactly about finding a reverse ritual or even figuring out where the Horcruxes were, but rather about where to find the needed information. The Hogwarts Library and all the Wizarding bookshops in Britain had been thoroughly searched shortly after the war to confiscate anything even merely referencing this kind of magic. Granger the bookworm found herself in the unlikely situation where she could not get her hands on the books she needed. She had yet to find a loophole to the desired information.

But it would have been a miracle if she only managed to free some time to do so. Granger's life looked like a never-ending day of work. She left for the Ministry early in the morning, returned a few hours later at the time Nathaniel would usually wake up to bring him after his breakfast to the Weasleys or whatever poor soul she dropped him on, before fixing herself and Draco a lunch. They did not eat together; she always put her meal into a plastic box, tucked it inside her bag and fled in a hurry. She came back with the kid by Portkey in the late afternoon, and when finally all the evening fuss around dinner and the boy was over, she would spend hours poring over paperwork and textbooks, the shades around her eyes growing darker and her shoulders hunching more and more. He never lingered in the living-room after dinner, but he could see her through the doorway of the bedroom he kept open until she decided to go to bed and cast the wards back.

The metallic clanking of a spoon against the ceramic rim of a bowl indicated Draco that Nathaniel was up and taking his breakfast in the open kitchen. Granger wouldn't be long to show up. He blinked, not having seen the hours fly by; the sky outside was now a steely gray, the clouds a few shades clearer around the area where the sun hid behind them. As if on cue, the _pop_ of Granger apparating in the living room came through the bedroom door a couple of minutes later, followed by the muffled sound of her voice interrupted by the kid's short answers. Not feeling like handling her attempts to make conversation, Draco slid off the windowsill, stiffly stretching his benumbed legs and the joints between his shoulder blades cracking when he straightened his spine, and dragged his feet to the bed, where he crawled under the crumpled blankets and buried his face in the pillow.

Some time later, Granger rapped her knuckles on the other side of the door to politely announce that she was entering. As she usually did not get any response from him, she pushed the doorknob without really waiting. He heard her release a small sigh full of scornful disappointment as she paused in the doorway. He could tell that she waited for him to snap out of his torpor and do something with his time other than sleeping and staring into space. He scowled into the pillow, remaining resolutely still until she left the tray with his lunch and closed the door behind her. What could she possibly expect him to do when she was the one to lock him between four walls with absolutely nothing to occupy his mind? When silence fell back on the apartment, he did not even bother to get out of the bed to resume his spot on the windowsill.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

The dazzling whirlwind of the Portkey travel stopped abruptly, and as soon as her feet hit the floor of the apartment, Hermione's free hand flew to her right to clutch Nathaniel's arm and steady him on his feet. Her own knees nearly buckled under the weight of the bag of groceries tucked under her left arm and of her purse, crammed with books and papers, dangling from her hand. Letting go of the little boy, she quickly dropped her purse onto the floor of the entrance and walked to the kitchen to put the heavy paper bag on the worktop. She turned around to see Nathaniel kick off his trainers, take off his coat and go to the sofa, where he lay on his side and curled up.

His small lips were pursed into a thin line, and his hazel eyes were half-closed and out of focus. When she went to pick him at the Burrow, Hermione knew he was upset before Molly even told her. It had obviously something to do with the session he had had with his therapist after lunch, but nor Molly nor her had been able to get a word out of him. Hermione knew the little boy well enough to sense that his sulking wasn't a simple whim. She took off her cloak, swinging it onto the back of a kitchen chair, slipped out of her boots she put in the entrance, and went to sit next to the child on the couch.

"You still don't want to tell me what's going on?" she asked softly.

Nathaniel only frowned. She reached out and gently brushed a strand of dark, feathery hair off his temple.

"Hey, what if made pizza for dinner? Your favorite – with the small cocktail sausages on it – what do you say?" she offered cheerfully.

The little boy shrugged then nodded, still examining some imaginary spot on the coffee table between the sofa and the television set.

"Okay," smiled Hermione, briefly squeezing his ankle and getting up. "You can watch telly for a bit while I make dinner."

"Can I go to my room?" mumbled Nathaniel.

"Yes… Yes, of course. I'll call you when it's ready."

Feeling worry settle at the pit of her stomach, Hermione watched him leap off the couch and disappear into his room. Heaving a sigh, she removed one by one all the bobby pins from her hair she had pinned up at work, and slid them in the pocket of her tailored skirt. She let herself go against the back of the sofa, burying her toes in the thick, soft carpet, and rubbed her eyes before remembering that she was wearing mascara and trying to wipe off as best she could the dry make-up she had smudged under her eyes. At last, she stood up, waved her wand toward her bedroom door, muttering incantations under her breath, and rounded the kitchen counter to start taking the groceries out of their bag.

She was unrolling the pizza dough onto two baking trays, planning a vegetarian one for Malfoy and one for her and Nathaniel, when the door across the living room opened. She gave Malfoy a critical look as he dragged his feet out of the room, her gaze running over the sleeping marks across his left cheek, his tousled hair and crumpled clothes. His black outfit matched the expression of cold impassiveness upon his face.

"Why, look at you. Aren't you such a little ray of sunshine?" snorted Hermione sarcastically.

Malfoy only sniffed, shooting her a dirty look as he went by, and flung himself into an armchair, propping up his feet on the edge of the coffee table. Hermione glared and bit the inside of her cheek, but did not say anything. It was of no use; once Malfoy settled somewhere, nothing could make him move unless he decided to. He folded his arms, and letting his head fall on the back of his seat, stared at the ceiling. Hermione turned away from him, starting to chop red and green peppers. After a week, she was more or less used to Malfoy's presence or at least wasn't afraid anymore of him attacking her when she wasn't looking.

In fact, she was starting to believe that a chair could be less apathetic than him, which was exactly the way Nathaniel treated him. After their first exchange of words during their first meal together, the child had been ignoring Malfoy as though he were a piece of furniture and did not try and talk to him again. Hermione knew it wasn't resentment; Nathaniel simply never tried to impose his presence on people that weren't interested in it. But she would sometimes catch him peeking curiously at the Slytherin out of the corner of his eye.

She was putting the pizzas into the oven when something tugged at the fabric of her skirt at her hip. Hermione looked down to see Nathaniel, his head tilted up but his eyes not meeting hers.

"Read to me, please," he said.

He was holding out an old illustrated edition of ' _The Wonderful Adventures of Nils_ ', a book they had been reading together for at least three times already. Hermione smiled and stroked his forehead with the back of her knuckles, as her fingers were dripping with tomato sauce.

"I can't right now… I promise I will after dinner."

Something strange flitted across the boy's features.

"I want to read it now," he whispered almost inaudibly. "We won't have time later…"

Hermione opened her mouth, but before she could voice a question, Nathaniel had turned around and spotted Malfoy's motionless figure in the living room. The child crossed the room and stopped a few steps away from the Slytherin. His eyes fixed on the tip of his toes, he held out his book.

"Read to me… Please?"

"No," was all Malfoy's answer.

He didn't as much as blink and barely moved his lips. The little boy knitted his brows.

"You don't know how to read?" he asked with puzzlement, tilting his head and glancing at the blond man out of the corner of his eye.

"That's right, I don't know how to read," drawled Malfoy dismissively, still gazing at the ceiling.

"Oh…" said Nathaniel, looking thoughtful. "I'll teach you then."

Hermione's eyes widened as she watched, torn between apprehension and faint amazement, while the little boy pushed unceremoniously Malfoy's legs off the coffee table to settle there himself and dropped the book onto the Slytherin's lap. Malfoy's head shot up, and there was a short moment of mute bewilderment, during which the child started spelling the title of the story:

"That's T like 'tea'… and H like 'horse'… and E like…"

But Malfoy suddenly leaned forward and seized the boy under the armpits, lifting him from the coffee table and putting him back on his feet as far away as possible, at arm's length. He tossed the book onto the sofa on his right and propped up his feet back on the edge of the coffee table, scowling.

"Mal- Dorian…" hissed Hermione threateningly.

He ignored her.

"Didn't anyone teach you what 'no' means?" he glared at the little boy. "Stop pestering me."

"Nat'!" called Hermione. "Come on! I'll read it to you…"

But the child remained standing next to Malfoy, this time looking directly into his face.

"You are not nice," he said sternly. "I don't like you."

Malfoy quirked a mocking eyebrow.

"The feeling is mutual," he replied with disdain.

"Nat'," repeated Hermione more firmly.

The boy returned to the open kitchen but did not bring the book. He sat at the table and watched the pizza dough swell and the cheese melt and bubble in the orangey light inside the oven, while a mouthwatering scent wafted through the room and Hermione set the table. The next time he spoke, they were all sitting around the table, halfway through eating their pizzas.

"Can we go visit mummy and daddy soon?" said Nathaniel suddenly in a low voice, scraping tomato sauce with his fork off his plate.

Hermione put down her slice of pizza.

"Yes, of course," she answered softly, examining the boy's face worriedly. "We'll go on Saturday, okay? Or I'm going to take a day off… As soon as I can, okay?"

Nathaniel nodded.

"Nat', what's wrong?" whispered Hermione, her sense of foreboding intensifying with every passing second.

"I don't want them to forget about me…" mumbled the child, his gaze wandering to the floor.

Hermione took a sharp breath, searching for something to say.

"Doctor Bell said I can't like you very much, and you don't have the right to like me, because I can't stay with you forever."

At the other end of the table, Malfoy made a muffled sound – something between a disgusted sneer and a sigh. But Hermione was too frozen in horror to snap at him. She was torn between the need to urgently find something soothing to say and was fighting desperately the mounting anger she felt as blood started thumping in her ears.

"She said that?" was all she could manage in a somewhat shrill voice.

Hermione gripped the edge of the table with such strength that her knuckles turned white. She knew that technically it was the way things were supposed to work, but she did not expect the therapist she sent Nathaniel to for comfort to tell him so, even if it were to keep him from eventual emotional harm. She was vaguely aware of Malfoy leaving the table and striding to her bedroom with a scowl of annoyance. The feet of her chair screeched loudly against the tiled floor of the kitchen when she pushed it back to crouch next to Nathaniel. For once, she didn't think twice before scooping the boy in her arms and pulling him off his seat and into her lap, and he did not flinch; it was one of these moments when he needed human contact. Hermione held him tight against her chest, the side of his head resting on the top of hers.

"I like you very much, Nat'," she whispered fiercely against his small shoulder. "And your mummy and daddy will never forget about you. They love you more than anything in the world. We'll visit them as soon as possible, I promise, little buddy."

After a moment, the little boy nodded and freed himself from her embrace, but remained within her reach, peering at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Come on, let's read about Nils," smiled Hermione, standing up and managing to hide the trembling in her voice.

Nathaniel scooted to his room while she went to pick the book from the sofa and joined him to help him change into his pajamas. She climbed next to him atop the comforter, near the bedside lamp, and read for the next two hours, disregarding the pile of paperwork waiting for her in her bag, until the boy's eyelids were so heavy that he couldn't bring himself to keep them open even to look at his favorite illustrations. Then, she put the book on the nightstand, tucked him in and dimmed the nightlight, before exiting the room.

Her bedroom door across the living room was shut. The high windows on the right side of the room had taken the color of blackboards. Instead of returning to the kitchen, Hermione only waved her wand to send the dishes into the sink, and with another flick of her wand, the tap turned open, and the sponge and the dishwashing liquid jumped into action. She dragged her feet to the piano, slumped onto the round, leather stool, put her elbows on the edge of the keyboard and buried her face in her hands. The muscles in her neck were knotted, her eyes prickled after so much reading. The only idea of going through the innumerable files crammed in her bag – all of them minor criminal cases to review for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – or engrossing herself in her Advanced Arithmancy textbook made her temples throb. So she just sat there, letting her hands fly absentmindedly over the black and white keys.

Sometimes, when her thoughts started to wander as they did now, she would picture what it would be like if Nathaniel could actually stay with her forever. She would start doing a list of every step of an adoption procedure, and then, a scorching feeling of shame would wash over her. To imagine that Nathaniel could stay with her came to consider that his parents would never wake up. And she certainly did not have the slightest right nor the slightest desire of wishing him that.

"Why did you stop?"

Hermione started with a gasp and spun around on her seat. Malfoy was leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom, watching her with an unreadable expression.

"I wasn't actually… I was just thinking."

"Play again."

Taken aback, Hermione raised her eyebrows.

"Sure. You are asking so nicely!" she snorted.

Malfoy crossed the living room and slouched in his favorite armchair, which left the sofa and the coffee table between them. His steely gaze focused on her, waiting.

"What was I playing?" asked Hermione, rolling her eyes.

"Beethoven."

"Right…"

It took her a moment to remember the score now that she was aware of what she was playing. She wasn't a big fan of Beethoven. The few pieces she knew of him filled her with melancholy, and it was not a feeling she liked to dwell on. She liked Chopin better. But it was the first time Malfoy actually reacted more or less positively to something, and she was intrigued by this new state of mind. So she complied, playing the first movement of _Moonlight Sonata_ again from the beginning _,_ but a little faster than should: Malfoy's still presence, the pitch black night outside the windows, the sinister melody of low notes, made her skin crawl.

"You are playing it too fast."

"I know, I…" Hermione trailed off and turned to the Slytherin, considering him with interest. "I didn't know you liked music."

Malfoy shrugged, his gaze as cool as ever.

"I won't ask you to play again. You've completely mangled it," he drawled, rising from the armchair.

But she was too curious about his emerging from his lethargy, briefly as it was, to pay attention to his taunt and take offense.

"Do you play?" she asked as he walked past her, heading back to the bedroom.

"Used to," he answered curtly without pausing.

"Would you like -…"

"No."

This time, he stopped and turned around, his cold eyes meeting hers. His mask of indifference hardened. Hermione hesitated, biting her lower lip, but held his gaze. At last, she resolved to reach for this new streak of humanity she discovered in Malfoy.

"Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul," she said quietly, quoting Wilde and hoping that he would remember the reference.

"Don't," snapped Malfoy, his features sharpening as anger twisted his face.

Hermione cast a worried glance toward Nathaniel's door, before looking back at the Slytherin.

"Don't make me into a case study, Granger," he spat, his dull eyes suddenly blazing in their slightly hollowed sockets. "Keep your tactics to your loony boy."

He spun around and strode into the bedroom, the door slamming so violently behind him that Hermione flinched. Gritting her teeth, she tiptoed to Nathaniel's room and opened the door just a crack: miraculously, the little boy was still deeply asleep.

"That went well…" muttered sarcastically Hermione to herself, massaging the bridge of her nose with weariness.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

The green flames swallowing his body die out, and soot falls onto his shoulders from under the high mantelpiece as he steps out of the fireplace in the drawing room of the Manor. He dusts his clothes, squinting when blinding daylight hits his eyes. All the diamond-paned windows of the room are open, the crisp air of March gushing inside. Everything looks oddly sharp in this cold light. As usual, all the furniture is pushed against the walls, leaving a large empty space in the middle of the room. There is a large crack in one of the black marble tiles of the floor, left there by the heavy chandelier their former house-elf had toppled two weeks ago. The Persian carpets covering the floor had been removed after having been irremediably stained with blood – traces of their Master's wrath after Potter and his friends escaped.

He makes a few reluctant steps inside the empty room, already impatient to leave the place and return to Hogwarts and filled with dread as to why he has been summoned. The note he received from Father in the morning gave no indication. He relaxes a little; the Dark Lord doesn't seem to be there. In fact, there is only Father, his motionless figure silhouetting against the hollowed turquoise of the sky, on the other side of the room. He is holding a glass of what must be Firewhiskey, and his free hand twitches nervously at his side. A thick stubble is shading his jaw, and his long hair looks matted as it falls on his shoulders.

"She is upstairs," Father rasps out without turning to look at him. "She wants to see you."

He stops, suddenly feeling cold, his nostrils catching a faint scent of death the wind fails to carry away. He starts toward the door, the soles of his shoes stepping loudly on the stone floor. Everything seems to be floating; the hallways, the flights of marble stairs and the dim corridors flash by, and while some awful sense of foreboding tells him to turn on his heels, he realizes he is running. He skids to a halt only when he reaches the closed door of Mother's sitting room. He knocks, and getting no answer, enters after a few moments. Here, the curtains are drawn, and the air is thick. A fire is roaring in the hearth.

She is sitting at her grand piano; her hands are resting flat on the keys. Something in her posture reminds him of a puppet whose strings have been cut.

"Mother?"

He hears his own voice like from afar.

"Close the door, Draco. It's cold in here."

 _No, it's not… It's a dream, Mother, he wants to answer..._

He complies and crosses the room, going around the piano.

 _He has to wake up… Now! Before he understands…_

"Mother, you wanted to see me?" he croaks out.

 _He knows._

His breath catches when she looks up at him, her eyes slightly out of focus and her features slack. And then, she quickly averts her gaze. She looks scared and ashamed at the same time and wraps her arms around herself.

"Lucius called you?" she whispers. "He shouldn't have."

Everything is sinking inside of him, his heart plummets in his chest. He is suffocating.

"Mother… Mother! Mom!"

He is on his knees next to her seat, shaking her.

"Why? _Why?_ "

"You should go back to school now, Draco."

The room is spinning, and the scene crumbles like a house of cards before rising all around him again and regaining its sharpness. He is back in the drawing room and he is yelling, but it doesn't sound like his voice. The murderous fury, though, is certainly his. He feels it washing over him in relentless waves, almost blinding him as he shouts at his father's blurred face.

" _Why?_ Why did you let her? _Why?!_ "

He has no idea when he has taken out his wand. But it spits sparks and then flies out of his hand as Father disarms him with a flick of his own wand.

" _I hate you! I_ fucking _hate you!_ "

He wants nothing more than to curl his fingers around his throat and choke him to death… He feels the flesh under his palms… A body thrashing beneath his… And then, a blast sends him flying backward and he hits a wall, all the bright daylight vanishing suddenly and giving place to a bluish darkness striped with the orangey rays of Muggle lampposts.

" _Incarcerous!_ "

Dazed, Draco watched the thin cords appear out of thin air to wind around his legs and up his body, tying tightly his arms to his sides. On his right, the high pile of Granger's books had collapsed, some of the volumes lying open on the floor. On his left, the blankets were hanging off the bed in a crumpled mess. Draco struggled against the ropes binding him.

"Don't move!"

He froze; a few steps away, Granger was crouching on the floor, wearing a tank top and pajama bottoms, her hair flying madly around her head. She was pointing her wand at him with a trembling hand while massaging her neck with the other. She crawled backward, coughing and spitting, and a ray of light hit the reddish marks around her throat. Draco opened his mouth, but panic had knocked all breath out of him.

"Mione?"

Granger whirled around toward the small voice, and Draco noticed the little boy in fleece pajamas standing in the doorway and staring at them with confusion written over his sleepy features.

"Nat', go back to your room!" shrieked Granger, scrambling to her feet.

She jumped to the kid, lifting him in her arms and slammed the door behind them. He heard her stride hurriedly across the living room, muttering something to the boy. His brain was like paralyzed, failing to understand what had happened. The back of his head was starting to throb where it had banged against the wall. _Did he attack Granger?_ He was out of breath and sweating as though he had run several miles. A door opened and closed, and her footsteps sounded again in the living room. A few seconds later, she kicked open the door of the bedroom and stopped in the doorway. Her breath was escaping her chest in short, wheezing puffs, and her wide eyes were full of shock and anger.

"Granger…"

She raised her arm, aiming her wand at his chest.

"You are getting the hell out of my house, Malfoy."

* * *

 **A/N:** Those of you who have read my first story know how much I love writing dreams and flashbacks… So, yeah, there is going to be some of these...

I'm afraid this chapter might have been a bit boring… I wanted to explore a bit more the psychological state of the characters. Hopefully, you'll find the next chapters more interesting.

Anyway, thanks to all of you for the follows, favs and reviews (I'm answering to all the signed ones but I also want to thank the guests)! You are fueling my inspiration!


	5. Silence

**Chapter 5**

 **Silence**

"We might be a bit early," said Hermione softly as she and Nathaniel climbed the stairs to the fourth floor of Saint Mungo's.

The halls of the higher floors were mostly deserted, except for the Healers in lime-green robes, weary-looking after their night shift, who strode hurriedly up and down the corridors, their steps echoing with hollow sounds off the bare walls. The life-size portraits of famous Healers – some dating back to the Middle Ages, others fairly recent – that were hanging on the walls of the staircase lifted their eyelids drowsily when the young woman and the little boy passed them, muttering under their breath barely audible comments on their potential medical condition.

Holding Nathaniel's hand, Hermione finally stopped on the stairs landing of the fourth floor, before a set of double doors, above which hung a sign reading 'Spell Damage: unliftable jinxes, hexes, incorrectly applied charms, etc.' Slightly winded and her cheeks rosy, she unwound her scarf from around her neck; they had come the Muggle way, by bus, as setting up a Portkey to travel within the city would have been overusing the Ministry's special authorization. Standing on the tip of her toes, Hermione cast a glance through the round windows set in the double doors to see if there already were other visitors inside. A young mediwitch levitating a breakfast tray toward a patient's room noticed her from the other side of the doors and nodded for her to enter.

"I think we can go inside," smiled Hermione, turning to Nathaniel. "Nat'?"

The boy had let go of her hand and backed away a few steps, frowning at the tip of his shoes. Familiar with these moments of reluctant hesitation he always had when they came to this place, Hermione didn't say anything. Pretending to look elsewhere while the child peered sullenly at the doors, she calmly took off her winter coat, hung it over her left arm with her scarf and leaned her back against the wall next to the doors, waiting for Nathaniel to be ready to go inside. After a couple of minutes, the little boy edged forward, and Hermione pushed and held for him one of the heavy door panels. A disgruntled mediwitch with a tight bun of metallic gray hair scurried their way.

"We come to visit Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell. We registered our presence at the reception desk," said Hermione to the witch, who nodded sharply and set off at a trot, barking orders to other nurses as she led Hermione and Nathaniel to another pair of double doors midway down the main corridor.

" _Alohomora_ ," she chanted, flicking her wand to the doors, which swung smoothly on their hinges.

She motioned impatiently for them to enter, hissing a ' _keep quiet'_ , and quickly closed the doors behind them, leaving them in the eerie silence reigning inside the ward. Hermione put a reassuring hand on top of Nathaniel's head as he stopped again and ran his gaze around the bright room. The artificial sunlight that streamed through the high enchanted windows made the ward look like the aisle of a small cathedral. A desk nearly crumbling under the weight of the stacks of papers and books piled on it was standing on their left, and Hermione could see the balding top of the bowed head of the Healer sitting behind it. The middle-aged man briefly raised his head when the doors closed with a thud and scanned them with a haggard look, before slumping limply back on his chair. A series of quiet noises sounding like a clogged whistle followed soon after, indicating that the exhausted Healer had fallen back asleep.

All around the vast, high-ceilinged room, beds were lined up against the walls, but there were no curtains around them to protect the privacy of the patients. There was no need, as all of them lay motionless and rigid beneath their covers, their faces wooden, plunged into a deep comatose state. There were no personal belongings on the bedside tables and no flowers brought by visitors for them to admire. The sterile atmosphere and the silence inside the ward, more than anywhere else in Saint Mungo's, conveyed a heavy feeling of unease that made one want to walk on tiptoes and speak in a hushed voice.

Nathaniel started toward the other end of the ward, his feet shuffling quietly against the sparkling tiles of the floor. Hermione followed a few paces behind. His parents' beds were almost against the far wall: two identical, wrought iron single beds with mouse-gray covers, a nightstand in between and a chair at the foot of each. Hermione caught up with the little boy to help him to take off the various layers of winter clothes he was wrapped in and moved one of the chairs for him to sit between his parents. She settled on the other one, at the foot of Mr. Caldwell's bed, and watched with a lump in her throat as Nathaniel examined furtively the frozen faces of the couple.

The little boy took after his mother. She was a relatively young, small, slender woman, with short straight dark brown hair, a delicate face with a pointed chin and eyes Hermione could tell were big even though they were closed. His father was a tall, burly-looking man, although his muscles had melted from the months spent in a hospital bed. He had an angular face, all in sharp lines and edges, and graying chestnut hair, despite the fact that he was only in his mid-thirties. They were both Curse-breakers, but otherwise, Hermione didn't know much about them, except that, being Muggle-borns, they had tried to leave for Egypt with their son shortly before the end of the war and had been ambushed by Death Eaters. They had managed to fight them off but had been hit by a slow-acting curse, which nearly drove them to the edge of insanity and caused them to be interned in Saint Mungo's for an indefinite time until a counter-curse was found.

After a short moment of silent staring, Nathaniel lowered his gaze to look at his hands in his lap, his small face stern and swinging his legs. Hermione relaxed a little and let herself go against the back of her chair, outstretching her legs. There wasn't much to do; every time, the little boy would sit in complete silence for a few hours, unresponsive to any attempt to distract him, before asking to leave. Hermione was about to reach inside her bag to retrieve her Advanced Arithmancy textbook, when her eyes fell upon a heap of newspapers on a small table nearby, put there for the staff and visitors. Old, black and white _Daily Prophets_ were mingled with brightly colored _Witch Weeklys,_ and Hermione even spotted a _Quibbler_ in the lot. But it was the new _Daily Prophet_ on top of the pile that had caught her attention; they had left the apartment before the morning owl-post delivered the newspaper of the day.

Hermione bent forward to take the newspaper from the table, feeling that there was something different even before properly reading the front page. She knew the usual headlines: at the end of the week, the accounts of the trials were always at the forefront, then came articles on new decrees, glorified public works, descriptions of 'public enemies' at large… Her eyes jumped from headline to headline – _the Ruling Committee to meet a delegation of Scandinavian wizards, MACUSA grants a generous loan to Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Hogwarts to hold an open day for foreign students_ – but no account of the trials of the week. Hermione frowned; the campaign of the Ruling Committee had always rested on the promise of an implacable justice to retaliate for war crimes, and they never missed an opportunity to remind just how strong the arm of justice was. Hermione spotted a small insert in the bottom corner of the page, and her brows furrowed even more:

 _Trials of all the pending cases (List, sections A and B) postponed at the behest of the Ruling Committee until further notice._

 _An ongoing investigation by the Magical Law Enforcement Department in collaboration with the Department of Mysteries was mentioned._

 _(For a weekly updated edition of the List, see last page.)_

Even though she knew it almost by heart, Hermione slowly flipped through the pages to the last one. The narrow columns of names, divided into three sections, took up the entire sheet. Section A – the shortest – mostly listed Death Eaters and other Voldemort's close followers or collaborators, who were currently locked in Azkaban and waiting for their sentence or on the run. Section B – a little longer – listed the witches and wizards placed under house arrest until further inquiry. At last, section C, which alone took up a good half of the page, was dedicated to all the ones prohibited from leaving the country until further notice. Hermione gazed unseeingly at the lines of words, some of the names catching her attention and standing out sharply on the grayish paper; Xenophilius Lovegood – section B, Rita Skeeter – section B, Dolores Umbridge – section A, Gregory Goyle – section A, Draco Malfoy – section A…

Hermione neatly folded _the Daily Prophet_ and put it down on the table. After casting a quick glance at Nathaniel, who hadn't moved on his chair, she took the heavy Arithmancy textbook out of her bag and opened it to the page where she had placed a leather bookmark, readying a small notebook and a Muggle pen on her lap to take notes. The hours passed with the eerie silence inside the ward only being broken by the wheezing breath of the Healer, the rustling of the pages and the mediwitches coming occasionally to check on the inert patients.

More than once, Hermione caught herself watching the sun rays shift across the off-white tiles of the floor rather than focusing on the complex diagrams on the yellowed parchment pages of the thick volume. Nathaniel did not seem like wanting to leave any time soon, only moving from his spot when the young woman made him go to the loo and took him to the tea room on the fifth floor to sustain themselves. It was already late in the afternoon when the little boy finally slid from his chair and went to stand next to Hermione, handing her mutely his coat so she would help him, the same expression of stern seriousness etched on his face.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

"I can't play this…"

"It's alright; your hands are too small."

Mother laughs, and her very voice sounds like music. He feels it thrumming through his body as he leans his back against her chest while he sits on her lap. Her arms move on either side of him, and she puts her hands on top of his, helping him to place his fingers correctly on the piano keyboard. He has to spread them as much as he can to reach the farthest keys of the short, simple score Mother teaches him. She is not annoyed when the notes sound chopped and false under his clumsy touch. She just laughs again, her hands replace his on the keyboard, and when the music flows, it is so perfect and harmonious that he believes she is doing magic… Until her palms are resting flat and motionless on the dusty black and ivory keys.

She looks so small now as she sits at the piano in front of him. He is seeing her from above as if, in the space of a fleeting second, the seven-year-old boy he was has turned into a grown man. A deafening silence has replaced music. It's closing in on them, and his lungs burn with the desire to shout to break it. Everything is spinning in a whirlwind of emerald green flames.

 _Maybe you don't know the spell? Let me teach you…_ hisses a cold, high-pitched voice, echoing right under his skull.

The green flames knock him off his feet and disappear, and he finds himself on his knees, the black marble tiles painfully hard under his kneecaps.

 _You know what I want from you, Draco._

The hissing is threatening to split his head in half. Green fire roars around him, swallows him to bring him back to the broken figure in the dim, circular room, only to tear him away again. The flames and Mother's sitting room flash before his eyes over and over, like a blurred scenery beyond the windows of a train, and the blood thumping loudly in his ears reminds him of the sound of iron wheels against the railroad.

 _There will be no fourth._

"You are forgiven, Draco."

Pain sears along his spine, from the nape of his neck to his tailbone, as the Lord marks his forgiveness on his back, crossing out the old scars of punishment with a new one of mercy. He doesn't hear himself screaming.

There is nothing. Every thought, every memory inside his head scatters and flies into pieces like the surface of a shattered mirror. And then, it's dark and silent. There is nothing. _He is nothing_ …

He is not dreaming, but he is waiting to wake up while his subconscious shivers and shrivels in the dark void of his dreamless slumber. It's a familiar yet dreadful thing – this impression of losing himself, of fading with nothing to cling onto.

 _Malfoy… Malfoy… Malfoy, wake up!_

The familiar voice is coming from afar. The young woman is shouting, but he struggles to catch the words; the sound is muffled as though there is a storm raging between them.

 _Stop it! Malfoy… Wake up! Draco…_

Granger's voice is closer now; suddenly, she doesn't sound as angry. She is trying to soothe him.

 _Draco… It's only a nightmare… You are safe here. You are safe, Draco… You have to wake up…_

Her voice is pulling him to the surface, out of the dark abyss. He reaches for it…

 _Malfoy, stop it! No!_

She is screaming again. Her panicked shrieks fade away, retreating to the back of his mind. He feels his hands curl around flesh and bones. His father's throat… _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you_ … He wants nothing more than choke him to death…

Draco jolted awake. His heart was throwing itself wildly against his ribcage. He gasped for air, while his blood rushed up his neck to thunder in his ears. The cold, damp fabric of his t-shirt was clinging to his body like a second skin, and his legs were entangled in a mess of twisted, light blue bed sheets with a pattern of yellow flowers. It took him a moment to recognize the circular room, in the middle of which stood his bed: the stone ceiling came into focus, with the crackled concrete between the uneven blocks and the streaks of grayish mold along the bare stone walls.

The cold, tenuous light of the low winter sun streamed through the only round multi-paned window, right under the ceiling, and cast the shadow of a cross on the wall opposite. Everything around this single beam of light was shrouded in shadows, and Draco could only make out the outline of the monstrous bric-a-brac stacked in the attic. The dry smell of dust and the acrid one of stale paint were floating in the cool air. The only sound to break the dead silence was the intermittent chirping of birds outside the window; Silencing Charms were completely isolating him from the rest of the house. Or rather they were isolating the rest of the house from him.

Draco sat upright in the middle of the bed and ran a hand through his hair, brushing backwards the damp strands that had fallen across his forehead. He rubbed his face; the skin on his jaw was rough again from a three-day stubble. His heart was still pounding forcefully, making it hard to breathe. He looked at the massive wooden trapdoor that opened in the floor a few steps on the right of the bed; a tray loaded with sandwiches and a glass of pumpkin juice was standing there. He averted his gaze, fighting a mounting nausea. Sliding off the bed, he paced aimlessly around the circular room, his bare feet bumping against broken chairs and old trunks, an irrepressible panic coursing through him. _It'll go away… It will soon go away to be replaced with nothingness…_

The young man stopped beneath the round window, facing the wall, and rested his forehead against the cold stone, clenching his fists. He felt a smooth piece of paper stick to the sole of his right foot. Draco squatted and picked up a photograph that had fallen on the floor and had been stuck in a small crack between the wooden boards; it was black and white, but the subjects on the glossy surface of the paper were moving. Even though the characteristic ginger color of her hair was deep gray, he recognized the young Weaslette, wearing her Hogwarts uniform and laughing with Granger. The picture was fairly recent, probably dating back to their sixth year, and although Granger did not look much different physically, she certainly looked happier and did not sport the sickly, exhausted look he knew her now.

The Granger in the picture was soundlessly saying something, chuckling and shaking her head, her impossible hair flying around her shoulders. The memory of her sprawled on the floor of her bedroom, spitting and coughing as she crawled away from him, hit Draco like an iron fist. He knew he had hurt her. Even more than that; he had tried to kill her. The cold feeling of dread that had started to recede returned with renewed might; for months, he had been clinging onto his sanity with all he had, but if he started to lose control on his actions, how could he still pretend that he hadn't gone insane?

Draco looked fixedly at Granger's lips moving, her cheeks creasing at the corners of her mouth as she grinned. The silence surrounding him was maddening.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

Wading through mud puddles, their shoes sinking an inch into the soaked ground, Hermione and Nathaniel went up the dirt road that led to the stoop of the Burrow and climbed the few uneven steps. The young woman reached for the doorknob, but before she could touch it, the door was thrown open, and the tall figure of a young man with flaming red hair and clad in a violet Weasley sweater appeared in the doorway.

"Hello, midget!" exclaimed George, leaning forward to seize Nathaniel under the armpits and lift him in the air, seating the boy on his hip.

Next moment, before Nathaniel had time to protest at such unceremonious treatment, a trick wand had made an appearance in his hands, and George was smiling widely, having successfully bribed the child.

"Hello, Hermione," he winked. "Everyone is already here."

He stepped to the side to let her in and quickly closed the door behind them to stop the biting wind from gushing inside the house. He helped Nathaniel to take off coat, while Hermione slipped out of hers and scourgified both her and the boy's shoes, careful not to put her feet on the trails of dirt left in the entrance by the other guests. Coming from the other end of the corridor, she could hear the hubbub of conversations in the living-room, and was surprised to recognize Kingsley's deep rumble, unmistakable among the other voices.

"Kingsley?" she asked George, surprised to find him outside the Ministry in the middle of a Friday afternoon. "Something happened?"

"Dad ran into him at the Ministry," explained George as they moved down the narrow hallway to the living-room. "He told him that everybody was going to be there, and Kingsley said he needed a little break and wanted to wish good luck to Ginny as well."

As they passed the kitchen doorway, Hermione glimpsed the back and the silvery hair of an elegant young woman, who was busy pushing a large baking tray into the oven. Bill had just left for a several weeks long mission for Gringotts, and Fleur often came to the Burrow to pay a visit, feeling too lonely at the deserted Seashell Cottage. When she straightened from her crouching position, Hermione saw the rounded outline of her growing belly beneath Mrs. Weasley's flowery apron she was wearing – the reason she and Molly were getting along rather nicely lately.

The next doorway opened on the living-room; George and Hermione stopped without entering, watching the scene from the threshold, while Nathaniel stood between them and shook his new trick wand to turn it into a rubber rooster with a puff of purple smoke. Careful to stay in the shadows of the corridor, Hermione craned her neck to search for Ginny among the people in the room. She spotted Kingsley, Mr. Weasley, Percy and Charlie, sitting with their heads together in the squashy armchairs around the fireplace. The young men were listening sternly to something their father and the dark-skinned wizard were discussing. But Kingsley wasn't the only person Hermione was surprised to find there.

As always, she flinched a little when she saw the tall woman with heavy brown curls and aristocratic features, who was facing Molly as they sat on the couch. Then, her eyes took in all the details that made the woman different from her sister: the eyes – bigger and warmer – the more delicate, heart-shaped face and sharper cheekbones. Andromeda was holding the little Teddy on her lap. The toddler was smiling widely at Molly with his toothless grin as she fed him what looked like carrot mash. The hair at the back of his head was chestnut brown like his grand-mother's, while the strands on the front had taken the deep orange shade of Molly's as every time he was brought to the Burrow. Hermione noticed with curiosity the glances Andromeda was sneaking in the direction of Kingsley every now and then. There was a slight crease between her eyebrows, and she looked unusually tense, as though she was waiting for something.

"The girls are upstairs," said George, tearing Hermione out of her thoughts.

She turned away and took Nathaniel's hand, smiling as she watched him mimic wand movements with the trick wand that looked like an ordinary magic wand again. She looked up at George and tilted her head.

"When are you planning to reopen the shop?" she whispered softly.

The young man stuck his hands inside his pockets and averted his gaze. A shadow passed across his features; sometimes, Hermione had the feeling that the more the time passed, the more George was drained of the cheerfulness he once had. Things weren't getting any better, rather the contrary.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "I still have some savings left – enough to live for a while. I don't need the shop for now."

He paused and glanced at the ceiling when a loud thud sounded upstairs; Ginny was probably packing.

"I was thinking about going on a little trip," he muttered. "Seems to work for Ginny…"

Hermione frowned, running absently her fingers through Nathaniel's feathery hair.

"George… You can't all run away," she said in a low voice. "Think about your mother…"

"Mom has Dad, and Fleur, and that little midget," he poked playfully Nathaniel's stomach, but Hermione noticed his gaze darken. "Gin' is waiting for you," he repeated. "I believe she needs your organizational skills."

Squeezing briefly his shoulder in a comforting gesture as he brushed past her to go into the living-room, Hermione took the opposite direction and went to the stairs with the little boy. As they climbed the steep wooden steps, the young woman carefully holding Nathaniel's hand, she could hear more and more distinctly the noises coming from Ginny's room: a curious mix of frantic pacing, of thuds as if the person was bumping into furniture as they walked, and the scraping sounds of heavy objects being dragged across the creaky floorboards. Hermione paused on the stairs landing in front of the closed bedroom door, hesitating, before reaching for the doorknob and pushing it tentatively. The door panel swung forward a few inches before being blocked by something inside the room.

"I'm not done, mom!" barked Ginny's irritated voice.

"Gin'…"

"Oh! Hi, Hermione! Wait a second; I'll push that trunk…"

There was the sound of the trunk being dragged across the floor, and the door opened, offering Hermione a brief glimpse of Ginny's freckled face framed with flaming hair, before she quickly turned away to walk across the bedroom. The young woman let Nathaniel step inside first and closed the door behind them as she entered. For a moment, she just stood frozen, discovering the apocalyptic vision inside the room.

The large leather trunk Ginny had just moved from behind the door stood open between the foot of the bed and the wall, barring the way to the other side of the bedroom. From what she could see of its dark, magically extended depths, it wasn't even half-full, and most of what was supposed to be inside was scattered throughout the room. Heaps of Ginny's muggle clothes were lying on the carpet, a few wizarding robes were hanging on the open door of the wardrobe, and a high pile of neatly folded green and yellow Quidditch uniforms was rising in the middle of the desk under the window. Ginny's broom lay next to the trunk with its Broomstick Servicing Kit, although the pots of polish, the brushes, and the tail-twig clippers had spilled out of their case and were now mingled with the contents of her toiletry bag.

Unfazed by the environing mess, Nathaniel made a bee-line for the bed and climbed next to Luna, who was sitting cross-legged in the middle of it, atop the knitted bedspread.

"Hi, Hermione,' she smiled while the little boy snuggled against her side.

Cautiously stepping over the various items littering the floor, Hermione went to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Everything is alright at home?" she asked Luna.

The blond girl gave a small shrug, stroking Nathaniel's hair.

"Dad saw _the Prophet_ this morning. I didn't have time to intercept it. He is a bit off as every time he sees the List…" her voice trailed off, and Hermione looked somberly at her hands in her lap; coming from Luna, 'a bit off' was always an understatement.

"But everything else seems to be more or less okay," she finished lightly.

They exchanged a long look, and Hermione nodded imperceptibly, before returning her gaze to Ginny, who was still standing by the window, her back turned to them and fiddling with something on her desk.

"Can I give you a hand with packing?" offered Hermione. "Gin'?" she repeated when the red-haired girl didn't react.

Sensing that there was something wrong, she gave Luna a questioning look.

"We've got news from Harry," spoke the blond girl softly, watching Ginny sympathetically.

Hermione felt her heart leap in her throat and pound somewhere in between her collarbones, hammering her windpipe.

"I finally wrote to him a week ago," said Ginny, eventually turning around to face them, her arms folded on her chest and a very strange look on her face that made the corners of her eyes crinkle and contorted the corners of her mouth as if she was trying hard to keep her lips from trembling. "I didn't tell you because I didn't actually think he would answer. It came this morning."

She leaned over to hand Hermione a crumpled piece of parchment she had in her hand, and the young woman took it feverishly.

"I wrote him about the Harpies and told him my new address. I also asked him if he had gotten your note about Rowle's trial."

Her face and voice were thoroughly composed, but Hermione could see the glint of bitter anger in her hazel eyes. She unfolded the scrap of paper, slightly damp from Ginny's clammy hands, and ran her gaze over the three lines of words:

 _Congratulations to the Harpies for their excellent choice of a Seeker!_

 _I hope to see you playing someday._

 _I ate a piece of carrot cake._

 _-H._

She read them over and over until they lost all their meaning and sounded random and hollow in her head. She looked up at Ginny, unable to find anything to say, something much worse and more insidious than mere disappointment creeping from the pit of her stomach and into her heart. Ginny was talking, her trouble becoming more and more visible as she spoke.

"Someday. _Someday!_ " she scoffed bitterly. "Not 'at your first match'. Not 'at the next year's championship'. _Someday_. That's something people say when they actually mean _never_."

"He answered you within a week?" muttered Hermione, gazing at the paper in her hands again.

Ginny had started pacing angrily up and down the room, tossing her clothes inside the open trunk. Hermione reread the note through the haze in her eyes: _I ate a piece of carrot cake_. The words weren't meaningless. It was Ron's favorite dessert. They had been eating it at his funeral, and then, when the Ministry had officially charged Rowle with his murder, a week later. Harry was acknowledging that he did receive her letter about Rowle's execution. She, however, wasn't even mentioned.

"I sent him a letter nearly two weeks ago," she hissed through gritted teeth. "I've been sending him letters every month. And all this time, he was within a week as the owl flies from us and he didn't even bother answering me when I kept him up to date on Ron's case! Why answering now? He doesn't even mention me…"

It stung. It stung so badly. Hermione realized only too late that her voice was shrill and quivering with hardly contained rage. Ginny slowly turned to her, her face hard.

"Well, he wasn't _your_ brother, was he?" she said coldly.

Hermione exhaled sharply as though she had received a blow in her solar plexus. Feeling as though her blood had been drained out of her body, she stood up stiffly and turned to the window, arms crossed. The wind was howling around the Burrow outside, wheezing as it gushed down its many chimneys.

"Right."

"Hermione…"

She averted her gaze from the window. Standing in the middle of the room, Ginny reddened, her eyes brimming with tears. On the bed, Luna was distracting Nathaniel with Arnold, which had crawled out from under the pillows.

"It's okay," sighed Hermione with a sad smile. "And Harry is not _my_ fiancé. I'm happy he answered you, Gin'."

Ginny held her gaze sheepishly, her cheeks still flushed beneath her freckles.

"I'm not sure he is actually my fiancé either," she whispered.

"We should do this the easy way," said Hermione after a moment of uncomfortable silence, drawing her wand and gesturing to the piles of clothes to send them into the trunk.

As Ginny crouched on the floor to gather the scattered contents of her toiletry bag and put the different items of the Broomstick Servicing Kit inside their case, Mrs. Weasley's voice called from the bottom of the stairs.

"Come down, girls! Tea is ready!"

Abandoning their packing, they left the room and went downstairs, Luna holding Nathaniel's hand. Everybody was settled in the living-room. The armchairs, footstools and the sofa had been pushed around a wobbling coffee table, which was now laden with several tea trays. While Ginny, Luna and Nathaniel moved to join the others, Hermione slipped to the kitchen where she heard Mrs. Weasley battling with the oven.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Weasley," she said, not having greeted her yet. "Do you need help?"

Mrs. Weasley straightened and turned around, smiling.

"Oh, here you are, dear! I didn't see you coming… Don't you worry; I was just putting the last batch in the oven. Where is Nathaniel?"

"In the living-room, with the others," answered Hermione, taking a seat at the kitchen table, while Molly started to arrange freshly baked muffins on a round serving dish.

"Are you okay, dear?" she asked, appraising Hermione with an inquisitive look. "You look pale."

The girl plucked a stray cranberry from the tablecloth and put it into her mouth, popping the acid berry on her tongue.

"I had a rough week," she attempted an evasive smile. "I asked for a day off so we could go and visit Nat's parents at Saint Mungo's."

"Any progress?" frowned Molly, pausing.

"The Healers are working on it…" mumbled Hermione, and Mrs. Weasley heaved a sigh, shaking her head sympathetically.

"Poor boy…" she muttered.

Hermione gazed at the wall separating the kitchen from the living-room and bit the inside of her cheeks, resisting the urge to let everything she was bottling up spill out.

"What is Andromeda doing here?" she asked to change the subject.

The crease between Mrs. Weasley's eyebrows deepened, and she glanced over her shoulder toward the open door of the kitchen as to check if there was anyone within earshot, but there was nobody in the hallway and the steady buzzing of conversations was still coming from the living-room.

"She came to ask Kingsley about her nephew."

"Her nephew?" repeated Hermione blankly. "What n-…?"

Her eyes widened.

"The Malfoy boy. As he is on the List, she can't exactly go the Ministry for information. If they did know, he would already be in Azkaban, you think! Or worse, in an execution room…" continued Molly without noticing Hermione's unease.

It felt odd to be reminded that Malfoy wasn't a completely isolated being with no actual ties with the world anymore and that there was a member of his family presently sitting a room away from her.

"… so she asked Kingsley – unofficially – whether he knew something."

She looked at Hermione and sighed again, mistaking her trouble for indignation.

"Except for Teddy, she doesn't have any family left, you know," she smiled with sadness. "He is still her sister's son, and I believe it's hard for her to know him on the run with the fate that is waiting for him."

"I guess so…" muttered Hermione.

"Kingsley told her the Ministry didn't have any information. She seemed a little relieved."

Mrs. Weasley flicked her wand, and the serving dish piled with muffins jumped in the air and floated before her as she went to the door. Hermione followed her into the narrow corridor, but before they reached the living-room, Molly suddenly turned around and pulled her against her with one arm. She released her quickly and smiled as Hermione watched her, taken aback.

"You all might think you are adults – you all have your own lives. And you might even be right; you've probably grown way too fast…" she said in a low, slightly trembling voice. "But to us, whether you are eighteen or eighty, you will always be kids. You will always be our children."

Mrs. Weasley then whirled around and quickly strode into the living-room, letting her words sink in. And Hermione understood that she wasn't only talking about Andromeda, who within a year had lost all her family except for a nephew she had never known and a grandson too young to even call her 'grandma', but about her own children, all leaving one after the other, about Harry, gone without a glance back, about her, Hermione, still there, still trying to keep up and play the adult, without ever actually feeling like one. She was sure Molly saw right through it. In that moment, she wanted to run after Mrs. Weasley and ask her when and how she was supposed to know that she had become an adult.

Instead, she entered the room, nodding, smiling and muttering 'hellos' and 'good afternoons' to the people she hadn't greeted yet as she made her way to the sofa, where Ginny and Luna had settled next to Andromeda. Nathaniel was sitting on Luna's lap and was trying to hide his face in the messy strands of her dirty blond hair. Hermione sat next to Ginny, took the cup of tea Molly handed her and sipped distractedly. Mr. Weasley, Kingsley, Percy and Charlie had stopped talking politics, and Charlie was now entertaining the assembly with some anecdote of his last rescue mission of a stray Welsh Green. Fleur and Mrs. Weasley were engrossed in a quiet conversation, and despite all of her efforts not to, Hermione could catch the words 'morning sickness' and 'breast milk' more than often. She did not take part in any conversation, her mind racing and her fingertips tapping nervously against her mug. She couldn't keep her gaze from wandering toward Andromeda, and every time, Malfoy's ashen face flashed before her eyes.

 _His features were taut and his gaze maddened as she made him walk across a field, her wand aimed between his shoulder blades, toward a lonely crooked tower that silhouetted in the distance against the breaking dawn. He was tripping every now and then on the rocky ground, hard and frozen beneath their feet, straining to keep his balance as his wrists were bound together behind his back. By the time they reached the Lovegood house, he was panting and shaking all over; from cold or fear she couldn't tell, probably both as she hadn't had any coat to give him._

" _-Granger, listen… You can't… You can't turn me in… Granger, I –… What the fuck happened? I didn't – "_

" _-I'm not turning you in, Malfoy. Just shut the hell up now…"_

 _Her own breath was wheezing and her voice hoarse even though she had taken a healing potion a few hours before._

Hermione's gaze suddenly focused on Percy, who was frowning while he looked at her from across the coffee table. She realized that she had brought a shaky hand to her neck, her fingers curling around her throat gingerly. The potion had healed and erased the bruises, but she could still feel Malfoy's hands close in a death grip around her throat, crushing her windpipe, as he flipped her on the bed and pinned her under his body, slurring hateful words at her.

 _She kicked and thrashed, making them both roll off the bed to the floor, and miraculously she felt her wand that had escaped her hand dig into her back, just before her vision started to blacken._

"Hermione?"

She felt the couch sink a little on her left and turned to Kingsley as he lowered himself heavily onto the old, squashy cushion next to her. Lost in her memories of the events of two days before, she hadn't noticed him coming. Kingsley put his cup of coffee down on the corner of the table the time to gather the folds of his dark purple robes around his legs, and turned to her, stirring the steaming black liquid. He was smiling warmly at her, but the expression failed to erase the many signs of tiredness etched on his dark skin and the slight, ever-present frown between his eyebrows.

"It's been a while since I had an occasion to talk to you," he said. "You are not attending the Order meetings…"

There was no reproach in his voice, only lassitude and something that even sounded like concern.

"I've been rather busy," answered Hermione, crumbling absentmindedly her half-eaten cranberry muffin between her fingers.

She shifted uneasily and took a sip of her warm tea.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here, today," she added, watching him out of the corner of her eye. "You must have more time now that the trials have been postponed."

The questioning in her voice was hardly disguised.

"Even without the trials, there is always plenty to be done,' Kingsley shook his head, smiling, but Hermione had the feeling that he was trying to avoid the subject.

The wizard looked at his long, gnarled hands thoughtfully, his expression becoming stern.

"I actually came because I heard you would be there, Hermione. There is something I've been wanting to discuss with you," he declared deliberately.

The young women straightened, waiting, but to her surprise, Kingsley motioned to the door at the other end of the living-room that gave outside, to the backyard.

"Would you accept for us to talk in private?" he asked in a low voice, rising from the couch.

Puzzled yet intrigued, Hermione followed him to the door across the living-room, shrugging when Ginny and Luna gave her questioning looks from the sofa. The icy, humid air bit the skin of her cheeks, neck and hands as soon as she was out the door, and the wind tossed the hem of her clothes and crawled beneath the fabric of her loose knitted cardigan. It was nearly five in the afternoon, and the night was rapidly gathering, all the faster that the sky was covered with thick clouds. Hermione drew her arms around herself, hesitating to go back inside and take her coat, but Kingsley beckoned her to the small barn across the muddy courtyard.

The air was as icy inside as it was outside, but at least they were protected from the wind, which made the wooden walls creak and the only window rattle. In the dim half-light, Hermione could see all the Muggle bric-a-brac Mr. Weasley had been bringing from work over the years. All the accumulated objects were occupying every free space inside the barn, towering like monstrous hills in the corners and piled on the floor, creating a maze of disemboweled television sets, smashed VHS cassettes with the glittery tape snaking out of them and to the ground, electric coffee makers still buzzing with residual magic.

Hermione lifted her feet high as she followed Kingsley through this maze not to step on the broken light bulbs and used batteries littering the floor. The black wizard stopped in a swish of robes and waved his wand toward a row of dusty gas lanterns that sputtered to light and bathed the place in a flickering glow. He perched as best he could on top of a broken washing machine and turned to Hermione, studying her gravely. She remained standing, her arms wrapped around herself to keep her body from shivering in the still, freezing air, slightly nervous and at the same time impatient to know the reasons for such a secretive set up for their conversation. So she was completely taken aback when Kingsley simply asked:

"Is everything alright?"

She blinked at him, her first thought being that he had somehow learned about Malfoy and was offering her an opportunity to confess before the Ministry sent Aurors to raid her apartment. Kingsley's stern expression softened even though a curious calculative glint she couldn't quite place remained in his gaze.

"Molly is always talking about everything you've been doing; with the kid – Nathaniel, right? – your N.E.W.T.s… Are you enjoying your work for the Ministry?"

Hermione fidgeted and made a few steps up the alley of Muggle artifacts, running a hand through her wild mane of curls. Her fingers caught in a tangle of knots, and it took her a moment to free her hand without pulling her hair out. When she turned back to him, Kingsley was still examining her.

"Well… I'm only working on minor cases, so it's mostly repetitive paperwork. But it's more than I could have expected without having passed any N.E.W.T.s yet," she answered at last.

"It's still much less than you could do, Hermione. They are underestimating your capabilities," replied Kingsley.

Hermione gazed to the rattling window; she didn't have the heart to admit that she wasn't exactly doing anything to prove herself either. She completed the tasks she was given perfectly, but did not take any personal initiative. One of the reasons was that she simply did not have the time to show superfluous zeal. The other – one she was truly ashamed of – was that for the first time in her life, she had absolutely no clue of what she wanted to do with her future. It was as though the primary purpose of her existence had ended with the final battle and the rest of her life hadn't started yet. If she listened to this exhausted part of herself every time she woke up at dawn in her cold, lonely bed, she would simply crawl back under the blankets, curl up and sleep for several months straight.

"This is what I wanted to talk to you about. The Committee has an offer for you that would make the best use of your skills."

Kingsley's voice stirred her from her thoughts. Hermione looked at him in complete awe.

"The Committee?" she repeated blankly.

Kingsley nodded, the shadow of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

"I have however to warn you that this offer is confidential, and so I would ask you, whatever your answer is, to keep this conversation private."

Their discussion was taking a turn she did not expect. Without waiting for her to agree, Kingsley stood up and clasped his hands behind his back, his face stern again.

"We've been looking for someone who can read very fast, sort out information efficiently, has an excellent knowledge of Latin and Ancient Runes, is familiar with the subject at hand and would understand the need for discretion. This person also ought to possess high personal integrity so we could entrust them this information without fearing they would use it for malicious purposes. I naturally put your name forward."

He paused, watching Hermione pointedly. She was considering him with circumspection.

"And exactly what kind of information are we talking about?" she asked slowly.

Kingsley gave her an approving look.

"You know that the Ministry had been confiscating all the books and manuscripts deemed… _inappropriate_ ," he answered, his expression carefully composed. "Of course, it's been impossible for the Ministry to read all of them to check if they actually mentioned the incriminated practices. All of them treat of obscure branches of magic but may not actually be dangerous, in which case their confiscation is unjustified. Some of them might even contain highly valuable knowledge it would be regrettable to destroy."

Hermione could only stare back at him, her mind teeming with questions and trying at the same time to conceal the sharp interest this conversation had sparked in her. She had the acute feeling that, by some unlikely miracle, the information she was looking for was being offered to her on a platter. The moment she realized it, she instinctively folded her arms; the reason Kingsley was suddenly telling her about these manuscripts the Ministry had been desperate to hide for they treated of the darkest forms of magic could be the end of her. Did he know something? Had the Ministry started to suspect something after Rowle's strange case?

"The Committee is looking to compile information on Horcruxes," she breathed, at last.

"The Committee," said Kingsley slowly, holding her gaze, "is looking to separate dangerous information from valuable knowledge."

"Why me?" frowned Hermione, managing to keep a steady voice. "Why giving such responsibility to someone who hasn't even graduated from Hogwarts yet? I'm sure there are plenty of witches and wizards far more experienced and qualified for this task."

"In fact, you have far more experience with this kind of magic than any other witch or wizard of the Ministry," replied Kingsley calmly, sitting back on the washing machine and folding his arms.

"The Unspeakables of the Department of Mysteries…"

"Not even them. But if you take this offer, Hermione, you are going to become one of them, and the Department of Mysteries is going to be your new workplace," interrupted Kingsley. "I put your name forward because I believe you have all the skills required for this task and I am sure that you are fully aware of its implications."

Hermione opened her mouth, closed it, turned on the spot, fiddled with a strand of her hair, before turning back to the dark-skinned wizard and looking him in the eye.

"The Committee is offering me this job only because _you_ submitted my name and probably pulled a few strings doing so," she said in a low voice. "This is not the reasons of the Committee for hiring me that I should question. It's your reasons for submitting my name in the first place. And it can't be out of pure kindness and concern for the success of my career. Not when it comes to something this important."

She stood still, watching Kingsley while he rose from his spot again. The tall wizard closed the distance between them and put his large hands on her thin shoulders, returning her stare gravely.

"I did not fool myself a single second thinking that you would take this offer as it is, Hermione. You are a very smart witch – the smartest of our age. I want you to listen to me very carefully now."

His grip on her shoulders strengthened as he looked her dead in eye. Suddenly, Hermione felt very small.

"The higher one's position is in the hierarchy, the bigger are the secrets kept from them. And the bigger the secrets, the higher the stakes. A wise person does not ask questions in a place like the Ministry. I would advise you to do what you do best: read, watch, listen, remember and think."

Kingsley stepped back, and Hermione released the breath she had been holding unwittingly.

"I will be expecting your answer by Sunday evening," he said, his features relaxing and a warm, casual smile appearing on his face. "I have to say my goodbyes to Molly and the others and return to my office. Sometimes, I think somebody put a Gemino curse on my paperwork."

While Kingsley strode out of the barn with his long robes billowing around his ankles, Hermione stayed behind, breathing deeply the icy air and mulling over his words. When she returned to the living-room some five minutes later, Kingsley was already gone, as were Andromeda and Teddy. Hermione quietly resumed her place on the sofa and, taking advantage of Ginny chattering with George, leaned over to Luna.

"Me and Nat' will need to make a stop at your place tonight, if you don't mind," she whispered. "We'll use Molly's Floo powder."

Giving her a look that meant that she had understood, Luna nodded discretely.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

Hugging Nathaniel tight against her, one of her hands covering the back of his head so he wouldn't accidentally bump it against the walls spinning around them, Hermione waited for the blazing whirlwind surrounding them to stop. The emerald green flames vanished, and as their feet hit hard ground again, she found herself looking from the inside of an unused, cobwebbed fireplace at a vast, circular kitchen with curved furniture painted in primary colors and bathed in the feeble glow of the candles burning in the chandelier hanging from the center of the circular ceiling. Just as she and Nathaniel stepped out of the soot-covered hearth, a door across the room opened and Luna came in from the night outside, the wind gushing suddenly through the doorway making the flame of the candles flicker.

Nathaniel, who was a regular of the place, scampered to the table in the middle of the kitchen, and climbing on a carved chair, reached for the pots of watercolors, the brushes and the scrolls of parchment littering the table, narrowly missing to overthrow a glass of dirty water used to rinse the brushes. While Luna took off her pink poncho and levitated a jar of cookies to the table for the little boy, Hermione hung their coats on the back of a chair, headed for the stove and set about putting water to boil and finding clean mugs to make some tea. When she turned around a minute later, Nathaniel had already managed to smear blue and purple paint all over his forearms and Luna was helping him to roll up the sleeves of his jumper. With a small grin, Hermione fetched two teabags from a tin can and dropped them into the teacups.

"You want to talk to Draco," whispered suddenly Luna's singing voice on her right.

Hermione turned to the girl, who was now leaning against the edge of the curved kitchen worktop. It wasn't a question. Hermione cast a quick glance to Nathaniel, but he was too busy with his painting to listen. She nodded discretely.

"Yes," she answered in the same low voice. "I found something on this thing I'm helping him with."

"You mean the not-so-legal thing?" smiled Luna.

Hermione grinned evasively, but she didn't push the subject.

"Is he always like this?" asked Luna, taking one of the steaming mugs and watching her with an unusual seriousness over the rim of her cup as she brought it to her lips.

Hermione's smile faded and she frowned in alarm.

"Like what?"

"He isn't well," murmured Luna, tilting her head, her silvery gaze thoughtful and faraway. "I left him candles and matches, you know, for when I don't come home before dark. But he is not even using them. He is not eating, he is not speaking. But it's not only physical. He is not well deep inside. I can sense it."

Her eyes focused back on Hermione.

"He wasn't like this when you brought him. He was scared, you know. And then, it's like he closed in on himself."

Hermione shifted uneasily, at a loss of words. The memory of Malfoy's hands curling around her throat was still very much vivid; she almost felt it burn on her skin, crushing every bit of concern Luna's words were stirring in her.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "I'm really sorry I involved you in this mess… You know that as soon as I find another place, I'll take him away… I was thinking about Grimmauld Place actually. Harry's not going to be back anytime soon, and nobody's using it."

But Luna shook her head and put a hand on her forearm, squeezing gently.

"I told you that if I can help in any way, I'd help," she said firmly. "You don't need to take him anywhere. He can stay here."

Hermione's brows shot up.

"He is a danger! He is completely out of control!" she hissed in a low voice. "I only brought him here to keep Nat'…" she cast another glance at the little boy, "…to keep Nat' away from him! He was yelling... _things_. I don't want Nat' to hear it! And I'm certainly not endangering you by leaving him in your attic indefinitely. Three days is already way too long, but I just can't turn him in... It wouldn't…"

"It wouldn't be right," finished Luna.

Hermione ran a hand trough her hair, looking around somewhat desperately.

"You should go and talk to him," said Luna softly.

After squeezing her arm encouragingly one more time, she went to sit next to Nathaniel at the kitchen table, while Hermione looked darkly to the ceiling, before heading to the spiraling staircase across the kitchen. The first floor, which was Luna's father's workplace, was lit by a single candle burning on a rickety table. Slouched in a rocking chair in the middle of the cluttered room, Hermione spotted Xenophilius Lovegood; he was wearing stained, striped pajamas and his greasy hair had fallen across his face. The strands were flying up and down as he breathed; he was fast asleep. Hermione tiptoed up the wrought iron stairs, past the master bedroom on the next floor and all the way up to Luna's room, which was shrouded in darkness, forcing Hermione to cast a non-verbal Wand-Lighting Charm.

Holding her wand over her head, Hermione stopped a few steps under the painted ceiling and waved it at the trapdoor to cancel the wards Luna had cast on it. She flicked it again, and the square wooden panel opened and fell on the floor inside the attic with a loud bang. Cautiously gripping the handrail with one hand, her wand firmly clutched in the other and darted into the darkness above, the young woman ascended the last steps. Quickly bracing herself on her elbows on the edge of the opening, she propped herself up through it, swung a knee over the edge as well and scrambled to her feet, immediately adopting a defensive posture with her wand leveled before her.

The bluish glow at the tip of her wand was enough to light almost the entire attic. Sitting on the bed a few steps away from her, Malfoy raised a hand to shield his eyes as the bright light hit him and squinted at her from the shadow. Hermione backed away to put some more distance between them and lowered her wand a little. Without saying a word, she examined Malfoy. He looked indeed terrible, and it wasn't entirely due to the unflattering light of the Lumos charm that made him look like a ghost in his white shirt. His hair was all messy again, and his unshaven face was sallow. He seemed to have lost the little healthy weight he had managed to gain over the past week. When he dropped his hand and his eyes glinted dully in the light of her wand, Hermione saw the lifeless look in them. There was something desperate about him, something that reminded her of the state he had been in the day he found her.

Hermione started when the silence was suddenly torn by the squeak of the mattress springs as Malfoy stood up unsteadily. She tensed, but he stayed where he was and merely looked at her, his arms hanging limply at his sides. Hermione swallowed, trying hard to ignore the unwelcome feeling swelling in her chest – _pity… pity with something akin to concern_. She forced herself to remember her reflection in the mirror that night, with the reddish marks around her throat.

"Granger…" rasped out Malfoy.

"I found a way to access the information you need," she cut him off abruptly.

Malfoy closed his mouth and blinked at her. Hermione glared at him with irritation: he didn't look even remotely interested.

"They need someone to sort out and organize the restricted section of the archives at the Ministry," she continued icily. "I was offered the job. I don't know yet the amount of work waiting for me or how long it'll take to find what you are looking for… It can be weeks like it can be months. If this kind of information even exists that is."

She looked at him coolly, waiting for a reaction. Finally, his shoulders fell a little, and Malfoy nodded slowly, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

"Do I have to stay here?" he asked in a low voice.

"Why? You don't like your new living quarters?" she replied acidly.

Malfoy's expressionless face darkened.

"Don't you worry; it's only temporary. I'll take you away tomorrow," said Hermione dryly.

"To your place?"

For a moment, Hermione searched his face; there was something she was failing to grasp. And when she finally put her finger on it, her eyes widened in disbelief.

"Malfoy, do you… _want to go back to my place?_ " she asked, her brows rising.

He didn't answer, but his gaze flickered away and his frown deepened.

"You are not going back to my place," hissed Hermione through gritted teeth. "Not after you – "

"Granger, I didn't want this… I didn't want to hurt you," growled Malfoy, a muscle starting to twitch in his cheek.

He closed his eyes briefly, scowling; it looked like it was physically painful for him to get the words out. Hermione raised her wand slightly.

"I was having a nightmare," he breathed, his steely gaze back on her. "I didn't…"

"You mean to tell me that you don't make the difference between what's happening inside your head and the reality?" spat Hermione angrily. "And you want me to take you back?"

"Granger, I can't stand it…"

"Well, it's not like you have the choice, is it?" scoffed Hermione.

He ignored her.

"The silence… I can't stand the silence…"

Hermione stared at him in alarm; his breath was quickening as though he was lacking air. He whirled around and went to stand on the other side of the bed, under the small window, his back turned to her. The round patch of night sky beyond the window was pitch-black.

"The silence," she repeated. "The silence… Malfoy, not once over the past two weeks did we have a decent conversation. You barged into my life, you dropped all of your problems on me, and then you've been avoiding all contact! You tried to strangle me and you are telling me it's because of a nightmare?! I'm supposed to help you but I don't even know what's going on with you! I know absolutely nothing about this person you are now, and I'm supposed to live under the same roof with you?" She scoffed and threw her arms in the air, the light of her wand dancing on the walls. "You _need_ me, Malfoy, but you don't _trust_ me. You told me the bare minimum, nothing more nothing less, and then, you clammed up! How do you expect me to trust you?"

Malfoy did not answer. For a moment, Hermione watched his motionless, ghostly pale silhouette standing stiffly across the room; she could see his vertebrae jut out slightly beneath the skin of his neck as he bowed his head. His fists were clenched at his sides. Shaking her head, Hermione took a step to the trapdoor.

"Granger."

She stopped, looking at Malfoy.

"You asked me how many I've killed," he said in a low voice, without turning around. "I can at least tell you how many I did not when I was ordered to."

Hermione stood frozen, staring at him with wide eyes as he finally moved. Bewildered, she watched him reach back to grab the fabric of his crumpled shirt and slowly pull it over his head, revealing inch after inch the bare skin of his back. When he was done tugging the shirt over his head, leaving his hair messier than ever, and tore it off his arms to toss it on the floor, Hermione realized that she had forgotten to breathe and drew a sharp breath, her lips parting in mute horror. In the cold light of her wand, the long, white scars marring his back from side to side and from neck to tailbone were a shade lighter and stood out against his already pale skin. Unwittingly, Hermione outstretched her wand hand and took a step forward, her gaze running over the sharp lines; it looked as though he had been slashed several times by a sword.

"Four…" she breathed, her voice strangled.

Malfoy turned around, revealing an even more scarred chest, even though these scars were different – jagged and thinner, barely visible. His features were twisted in an expression of deep loathing.

"Actually three," he drawled coldly. "At least that he knew of… I got the one on my spine when I made the Horcrux. See, he liked us to keep track of our failures, but also of his moments of generous forgiveness."

The light of her wand was dancing jerkily on the walls again. Her hand was trembling. Realizing that she was pointing it almost directly at his face and that he was squinting uncomfortably, Hermione lowered her arm. Her lips pursed into a thin line, her throat tight, she gazed unseeingly past him.

"You all always seemed to think that I had weaseled out, that I had chosen the easy way," said Malfoy quietly through gritted teeth. "Your side did not have the monopoly of hard choices and suffering, Granger. There was nothing easy when it came to this war."

Hermione turned away and walked to the square opening in the floor of the attic. Squatting, she swung her legs over the edge of the trapdoor and put her feet on the spiraling staircase. She heard the springs of the mattress squeak again behind her back as Malfoy sank heavily onto the bed.

"You are…"

She cleared her throat, her voice thick.

"You are going to take Sleeping Draughts every night," she said, this time evenly.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but silence in the darkness of the attic behind her, and then, quietly:

"Okay."

"I'm going to put Silencing Charms around the room at night. And I don't care if you are screaming in agony inside; I don't want Nathaniel to hear anything like this again."

"Okay."

Hermione slid off the edge of the trapdoor and went down a couple of steps, before pausing again and peering into the shadows of the attic; she could make out Malfoy's sitting form in the middle of the bed and she knew he was looking back at her.

"And I want you to be nice with Nathaniel. If I hear you snap at him again like you did, I swear I'm going to hex your tongue off."

"Fine."

Without another word, Hermione descended another three steps so her head was below the ceiling of Luna's room and waved her wand at the trapdoor, which closed shut with a thud, before casting back the wards. Back in the kitchen on the ground floor, she found Luna rocking Nathaniel on her lap; the boy's eyelashes were fluttering drowsily. A look at the clock brutally reminded Hermione of the late hour. Walking over to Luna and the boy, she squatted down next to them.

"A little Portkey ride and we are home, little buddy," she smiled to the sleepy child, stroking his cheek with the back of her knuckles.

Nathaniel slid off Luna's lap as Hermione snatched an empty inkwell from the table and tapped it with her wand, muttering complex incantations and coordinates under her breath until it shone blue and vibrated slightly. She looked up at Luna.

"I'll come back tomorrow."

"Grimmauld Place?" asked the blond girl lightly.

Hermione bit her lip sheepishly.

"No…" she muttered tersely. "I'm taking him back."

Luna's lips curled into a small smile, and she hummed approvingly, before bending over and pecking Nathaniel on the cheek.

"Off you go, little man!"

He and Hermione reached for the inkwell and disappeared in a flash of light.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm sorry it took me so long to update; this chapter was a monster to write! I'm still not entirely satisfied with it, but I thought I couldn't delay the update any longer. I hope you enjoyed it anyway! Read, share your thoughts, the usual stuff…


	6. Overture

**A/N:** I'M BACK! These last two months were insane! I couldn't catch a break… Anyway, I hope you are still there to read this!

If you want to keep up-to-date with how my writing process is going and sometimes learn gratuitous personal information, you can follow my blog on Tumblr (just look up my penname: RunningQuill). You will also find the aesthetics/moodboards for the chapters and my answers to guest reviewers who have questions/issues.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed and followed/favorited the story since the last update!

No more rambling, enjoy your read!

 **Chapter 6**

 **Overture**

When Hermione walked out of the bathroom next to Nathaniel's room, tucking the hem of her blouse into the waistband of her pencil skirt, she wanted nothing more than to crawl back under the covers still lying in a heap on the sofa. She cast a dark look at the windows of the living-room. That Monday morning did not even feel like morning. She could see nothing but darkness beyond the glass, with the golden halos of the lampposts floating in the void and the smeared car lights moving along the street below; the city was shrouded in fog.

"You should really eat something."

Hermione yawned and walked over to the kitchen counter, watching Luna bustle quietly in the open kitchen to fix herself a breakfast.

"I'm going to be late," she replied with a regretful look at the baked beans Luna was heating on the stove.

"Then drink this at least," said Luna, pushing a bowl of coffee with milk across the counter. "I already put sugar in it."

"Thank you," muttered Hermione, bringing the hot coffee to her lips and taking a few big gulps.

She set the bowl back down on the counter and eyed Luna sheepishly.

"Thank you," she said again in a low voice.

Luna looked at her over her shoulder.

"You don't have to thank me…"

"I really don't feel like leaving them alone…"

They broke off, having spoken at the same time. Hermione frowned worriedly and bit her lip. Luna poured herself a cup of tea and went to the counter, taking a seat opposite Hermione and smiling softly.

"I told you: all you have to do is ask."

"You don't have to let him out of the room," whispered Hermione anxiously. "You don't have to stay all day… Once Nathaniel is awake, you can bring him to the Burrow, and then, just give Malfoy his meals and let him be…"

"Everything is going to be just fine," interrupted her Luna, reaching to squeeze her hand reassuringly. "I'd be happy to spend the day with Nat."

"Malfoy…"

"Draco is not going to be a problem. I can handle him, Hermione."

Hermione did not look convinced but bowed her head in surrender. Her gaze fell on her wrist watch and she drew a sharp breath.

"I'm going to be late!" she huffed nervously, leaping off her bar stool.

"Wait!" called Luna. "To your new job…"

She raised her cup of tea and waited for Hermione to clink her half-empty bowl against it. The young woman downed her coffee and paused.

"Curious, isn't it…" she muttered. "A year and a half ago, I told the Minister of Magic himself that I would never join the Magical Law Enforcement because I was hoping to do some good in the world. That's what I said. And look at me; I've taken the job, willingly and even though it's worse than ever. I gave up."

She looked up at Luna.

"I've taken the job and disavowed myself. Who would have thought _he_ would be the one to bring me back to my own promise?"

Luna remained silent and only tilted her head, watching her somewhat cryptically. Hermione sighed and went to the entrance hallway to get her coat and her bag before returning to the living room and picking her wand from the coffee table. She mouthed Luna goodbye and disapparated, her expression still bothered and apprehensive.

Stepping over the lines delimiting the Apparition point, Hermione looked around the quiet Atrium; there weren't any queues waiting for the lifts at the far end of the hall, and only a few disgruntled, bleary-eyed witches and wizards in work-robes were dragging their feet across the Atrium on either side of the memorial wall. Hermione knew she wasn't looking exactly fresh and shiny either. She had spent a long moment before her mirror trying to no avail to conceal the dark circles under her eyes. She was used to arriving at the Ministry early in the morning, but the working hours of the Unspeakables, scheduled so as to avoid as much interaction as possible with other Ministry workers, were another kind of early.

Hermione crossed the Atrium, the small heels of her shoes clattering on the polished floorboards, and presented herself at the Security desk. Since the previous evening, she was no longer part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and thus had to submit to a security check as any other visitor. The old wizard sitting behind the counter with a listless look, his elbows on the desk and his chin resting on his hands, started and straightened when Hermione handed him the convocation letter Kingsley had owled her within half an hour after she had sent him her acceptance note. The watchwizard read the letter carefully while she waited with a politely patient expression and registered her wand before motioning her to the lifts.

When the wrought golden grilles slid sideways, Hermione took an empty lift. But instead of pushing the button of the ninth level, she slammed her palm against the first one; she had yet to get her clearance. The lift had barely begun to accelerate that it came to a halt abruptly, sending her stumbling against the wall. The grilles rattled, opening into a wide hallway with a dark purple carpeted floor and peacock-blue marble walls. This level, previously occupied by the Minister and his Support Staff, was now the domain of high-ranked members of the Ruling Committee, the rest of them staying in the Wizengamot administrative headquarters on the second level of the Ministry.

Hermione strode down the deserted corridor and stopped before the door of Kingsley's office. From there, she could see the black door with a gold handle at the very end of the hallway; it once was the Minister's office, but the engravings upon the golden plate now read ' _Chief Warlock: A. C. Fawley_ '. Hermione averted her gaze and rapped her knuckles against Kingsley's door.

"Come in," answered his deep voice.

Hermione pushed the doorknob and entered the room warily. Kingsley was sitting in a high-backed chair behind his massive, neatly organized desk. He wasn't alone. Stiffly perched on the edge of another high-backed armchair opposite him was a tall, thin wizard in black robes with straggly graying hair and bony hands clasped tightly in his lap. It was impossible to tell how old he was, and Hermione's first impression was one of a giant praying mantis. He turned around and gave her an unfriendly look over his rectangular, metal-rimmed spectacles pushed down low across the bridge of his long, sharp nose.

"Good morning, Miss Granger. Take a seat, please," said Kingsley in a pleasant voice, but his gaze was cold and did not leave the back of the other wizard's head.

Hermione walked over and sat down in the armchair next to the bespectacled wizard. She hesitated to introduce herself, but he had averted his gaze and was now pointedly looking at Shacklebolt. There was an aura of authority around him, and even though she had never met him before, something told Hermione he was the Head of the Department of Mysteries. With a smile that did not reach his eyes, Kingsley handed her an official-looking piece of parchment.

"This is your new contract," he said, cutting straight to the point. "Once you sign it, you will officially become an Unspeakable." His stern expression darkened as he continued: "You are aware that since _certain events_ of the past years, the Unspeakables are now under obligation to make an Unbreakable Vow to ensure the confidential nature of their work for the Department of Mysteries…"

Hermione, who had been skimming through the contract, almost dropped it and stared at him with a slightly panicked look. She knew he was referring to the Rookwood debacle but the idea she would have to undergo the same procedures as the other Unspeakables didn't cross her mind. Kingsley hastened to reassure her.

"However, as you won't be a permanent member of the team, you are not expected to submit to it."

The wizard on her left emitted a noise halfway between a cough and a displeased snort.

"I have nonetheless to inform you that any violation of the secrecy about your work will result, depending on its severity, in either immediate dismissal, partial Obliviation or imprisonment in Azkaban."

Hermione felt her mouth run dry and struggled to keep a straight face. Kingsley leaned over his desk and gave her an elegant black and gold quill. She took it with what she hoped was collected professionalism and took her time to read every clause of the contract before signing her name at the bottom.

"Welcome to the Department of Mysteries," the wizard next to her snapped dryly, snatching the contract from her without warning and duplicating it with a tap of his wand. "This…" He took a small, black badge out of the inside pocket of his robes, and Hermione saw her name written in silver letters, "… is the proof that you have clearance. You are to wear it on your robes whenever you enter the Department."

He stood up from his armchair and turned to the door.

"Monkstanley will escort you to your new workplace," nodded Kingsley encouragingly and reached for his cup of coffee. "Good luck."

Hermione followed Monkstanley, who turned out to be even taller than she thought, so she had to nearly run after him to keep up with his long strides, struggling to pin her badge to her shirt while clutching her bag and her copy of the contract under her arm. The wizard reached the lift before her and pressed the button of the ninth level without waiting. Hermione jumped into the cabin just in time before the wrought grilles slid shut. The descent into the depths of the Ministry passed in complete silence, which was broken by the cold disembodied voice announcing ' _Level 9: Department of Mysteries'_.

They exited the lift, and the apprehension Hermione was feeling only worsened as she trailed behind the grim Unspeakable. His plain black clothing almost blended with the black-tiled walls of the long corridor that led to the Entrance Chamber. His angular face offered a particularly dreadful sight in the bluish glow of the torches. The door at the end of the corridor swung noiselessly on its hinges at their approaching and they stepped into the circular room full of closed doors. Hermione looked down and saw her pale face reflecting in the dark marble floor.

"Archives," barked Monkstanley, his back turned to her.

The door behind them slammed shut and the walls started to rotate, the black door panels speeding by and becoming blurred. When the spinning eventually stopped, the door right opposite them opened and Monkstanley beckoned her curtly inside. Hermione, who half-consciously expected to inhale the characteristic scent of old leather and parchment and to find herself amid endless shelves full of forbidden knowledge, entered the Chamber eagerly and stopped as though she had hit an invisible wall.

It took her a moment to realize what had made her stop, and when she did, her instincts screamed in alarm. What she felt was an absolute lack of everything. She was deprived of all senses. She could still feel the fabric of her clothes against her skin, her unruly curls tickling the back of her neck, the weight of her bag in the crook of her arm, but everything else was gone. The magic at work inside of the Chamber suppressed all light, all sound, all smell, all shift in the air, and made impossible to tell even the ambient temperature. It was like stepping in limbo. Just as Hermione was starting to panic, Monkstanley's voice sounded again somewhere behind her.

"Light," he barked.

At once, the place was bathed in cold light. It seemed to be coming from everywhere and hence did not cast any shadows. Hermione blinked, equally wary and fascinated, and made a few steps inside the Chamber, which was furnished not with shelves but with long rows of black iron trestle tables. Dozens, hundreds of books and parchments were neatly disposed on their surface a few inches away from each other. Hermione was brought back to reality by the sharp voice of the wizard behind her.

"Stop. Don't touch anything," he snapped.

Hermione realized that she was reaching unwittingly for the nearest book – a thick volume bound in black snakeskin. She quickly dropped her arm, but Monkstanley thrust something into her hands. She unfolded a pair of elbow-length gloves, soft and thin yet unusually heavy as they were made of supple dragon hide.

"You are to wear these whenever you enter the Archives," instructed Monkstanley. "Nothing in this Chamber must come into contact with your skin. Most of these books and parchments were cursed and some of them still are. Try to manipulate them with your wand as much as possible and do not remove your gloves under any circumstances; they are your only protection. If you sense anything funny that might have slipped the attention of our Cursebreakers or if you can't open one of these books, set the said book aside and file a report so we can put a Cursebreaker on the case."

He glared down at her, and Hermione hurried to slip her hands into the gloves and pull them up to her elbows.

"You will find the instructions on the desk," Monkstanley motioned to a lonely table at the other end of the room. "Your lunch break is at 11 a.m. Good day to you, Miss Granger."

He whirled around in a swish of black robes and Hermione watched him walk out of the Chamber, closing the door behind him and leaving her in an otherworldly silence. The sterile atmosphere was oppressive, but she dismissed the feeling, her gaze running over the rows of tables and the displayed manuscripts. She wanted to start digging immediately but forced herself to walk over to her desk first and spent the next few hours perusing the instructions and shaping a work plan. Lunch time came and went without her noticing it…

Hermione dropped her bag onto the floor and took a moment to lean against the wall of the narrow entrance corridor of the apartment, rubbing wearily the bridge of her nose. Her brain felt like a wrung-out sponge and her temples like crushed in an iron helmet. She had had barely enough strength left to apparate home without splinching herself. Hermione rested the back of her head against the wall, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then, giving herself a bracing shake, took off her coat and headed down the corridor.

She frowned as she neared the living room; she could hear voices talking, but Luna's wasn't one of them. A mouthwatering smell of fried vegetables hung in the air, and the clanking of dishes came from the open kitchen; Luna was probably cooking dinner. Indeed, when she entered the main room, Hermione saw her over the counter, busying herself over the stovetop as she stir-fried a mix of chopped vegetables in a large wok. But Hermione's attention was quickly drawn away; she was about to announce her presence when she froze on the threshold of the room, and no sound came out of her parted lips as she stared at the scene before her with a disbelieving look.

In the middle of the living-room, Nathaniel was perched on the very edge of the sofa and was tapping enthusiastically a quill lying on the coffee table with the trick wand George had given him. Every now and then, the wand turned into a rubber rooster with a squeak and a puff of purple smoke before resuming its ordinary appearance. Hermione's gaze traveled to Malfoy's ominous figure who sat as far as possible from the boy at the other end of the sofa, all clad in black and his feet propped up on the corner of the coffee table as usual.

"… not like this. You have to flick and swish," he was saying, his upper lip curling ever so slightly in annoyance as he watched Nathaniel flail the trick wand haphazardly.

His dull gray eyes turned briefly to Hermione at her entering the room before coming back to Nathaniel, his face a mask of bored indifference. Without tearing her gaze away from them, Hermione edged toward the kitchen.

"Oh good; you're here! How was your day?" smiled Luna, looking at Hermione over her shoulder when she went to stand next to her.

"Luna… What's going on?" hissed Hermione in a low voice, her eyes wide as she watched Malfoy show Nathaniel the wand movement of the Charm with his hand.

Luna followed her gaze and her smile widened.

"Dorian is watching Nat while I make dinner," she answered serenely. "You hungry? It'll be ready in a few minutes."

"Dorian is watching Nat…" repeated Hermione blankly.

She suddenly seemed to snap out of her daze.

"Is everything alright?" she whispered worriedly, nudging Luna.

Luna hummed, pouring tomato sauce over the mix of zucchinis and green peppers in the wok.

"Oh yes. He came out of your room for lunch and stayed with us. He is eating and speaking again," she beamed. "Not that he is really talkative…" she added.

"You are doing it wrong," sounded Malfoy's cold voice from the living room.

"Am not!"

Hermione turned around to see Nathaniel tap the wand stubbornly, disregarding Malfoy's teachings. The latter snorted with contempt, and the little boy paused, giving him a rather scornful look out of the corner of his eye.

"You are not a wizard, anyway," he said in a quiet yet clear voice.

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow.

"Oh really?" he drawled.

"You don't even have a wand," said Nathaniel.

Hermione instinctively took a step forward as Malfoy's steely gaze focused on the child. His expression remained unreadable, but when he spoke, she could see the corners of his mouth sag a little.

"You don't need to have a wand to be a wizard," he replied.

For the first time, Nathaniel looked directly at him, a spark of interest lighting in his eyes.

"You can do magic without a wand?" he asked. "Can you show me? Please?"

A shadow passed over Malfoy's face. His gaze flickered, and Hermione had the acute feeling that he was trying to keep himself from looking at her.

"No," he said coolly.

Nathaniel looked slightly disappointed and resumed poking the quill with his trick wand.

"You are not a wizard," he repeated simply.

It was only an innocent remark from a child who dealt with the world in absolutes, but Hermione noticed the dark glint that lit in Malfoy's eyes. She glared at him threateningly, but he wasn't looking at her. He leaned back against the armrest of the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

"You have a wand but that doesn't make you a wizard," he said coldly.

Hermione blinked and exchanged a horrified look with Luna.

"Nat!" she called, knowing only too well the damage Malfoy had just done.

She started out of the kitchen area, but Nathaniel had already slid off the sofa and was striding to his room, his small stern face shut. He kicked the door closed behind him, and Hermione skidded to a halt halfway to the room, torn between the need to go after the little boy and the urge to hex Malfoy, who was gazing after Nathaniel with a mildly puzzled expression. After casting him a dirty look, Hermione went inside Nathaniel's room.

"Nat?" she called softly in the darkness.

She fumbled for the switch and flicked it up, lighting the room and the little boy who lay curled up on his side in the middle of the bed, his back turned to the door. Hermione sighed and went to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. She reached out tentatively, her hand ghosting over his arm without quite touching him.

"He didn't mean you weren't a wizard, Nat," she said soothingly. "But he is a grown up and he already went to Hogwarts and learned everything adult wizards need to know. He only meant that he is more experienced than you…"

She glowered at the closed door of the room as though her gaze could burn a hole in it and reduce Malfoy to ashes. Nathaniel did not move, his face buried in a pillow. Hermione put her hand on his arm and rubbed gently.

"Nat…"

"Is he mad at me?"

Hermione's brows shot up.

"Mad at you?" she repeated, taken aback.

The boy shifted and rolled over to face her. His gaze, however, remained focused somewhere over her shoulder.

"Is he mad at me because I said he's not a wizard? I didn't mean to be rude."

"I know, I know," said Hermione reassuringly. "He is not mad at you. He's just… a bit grouchy. It's his usual self."

She considered Nathaniel's blank face and gritted her teeth.

"Nat… Has Dorian been mean to you today?"

The boy shook his head, his hands tucked under his cheek.

"No. He doesn't speak a lot. But Lulu likes him. She's been talking to him."

He shrugged.

"Okay, good," muttered Hermione, patting his shoulder. She did not insist even though she wondered apprehensively what Luna might have told Malfoy. "Lulu made dinner. You come and join us when you're ready, okay, buddy?" she smiled, getting up from the bed.

Nathaniel nodded and hugged the pillow to him, closing his eyes. After watching him worriedly for a moment, Hermione left the room and carefully closed the door behind her before rounding on Malfoy. He and Luna were now standing next to the sofa, Malfoy's face dark as Luna talked to him in a low voice. She fell quiet as Hermione strode to them, her features contorted with anger and her wand out. She stopped with her face only a few inches away from Malfoy's; she had to stand on the tip of her toes to be at least level with his chin. His expression remained impassive and he didn't even flinch when she jabbed her wand under his jaw.

"I told you," seethed Hermione in a furious whisper, "I told you I would hex you if you ever hurt him again! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Hermione, he didn't know…" intervened Luna soothingly.

But Hermione ignored her, pressing the tip of her wand deeper into Malfoy's skin.

"I didn't know he was a Squib," he said coolly, looking down at her and his lip curling.

"He is not a S -" hissed Hermione but broke off abruptly.

The door of Nathaniel's room had clicked open, and she hurriedly took a step back from Malfoy, slipping her wand into the pocket of her pencil skirt and sending him a death glare before turning to the boy as he exited the room. Nathaniel did not look at them but silently went to the kitchen and climbed on his usual chair at the dining table, which Luna had already set. Still boiling internally but doing her best to appear calm, Hermione brushed past Malfoy and set about serving dinner, but Luna took the wok from her and beckoned her to sit with an uncharacteristically imperious look. Hermione pulled a chair next to Nathaniel at the same time Malfoy took a seat at the other end of the table, both of them sitting down stiffly and carefully avoiding looking at each other.

Luna filled Hermione's and Nathaniel's plates with fried fish and vegetables – and avocado toasts instead of fish for Malfoy (with a sideways glance at his plate, Hermione promised herself to investigate his gastronomic whims) – and wiped her hands on a towel hanging next to the kitchen sink.

"You are not staying for dinner?" frowned Hermione, noticing that Luna did not fix herself a plate.

She shook her head.

"I'm afraid Dad has been alone way too long already," she answered.

Hermione reddened, ashamed of the way she monopolized Luna's time, but before she could say anything, Luna squeezed her shoulder reassuringly and smiled.

"That's okay," she mouthed to Hermione. "Don't say anything. It's no trouble."

"You could at least take some of it home so you won't have to cook again," said Hermione firmly, standing up and fetching a large plastic box from a cupboard for Luna to take the food away.

After kissing Hermione and Nathaniel goodbye and waving to Draco, who answered with the slightest of nods, Luna disapparated with the plastic box tucked inside her bag. The moment she vanished, Hermione felt as though the air was suddenly heavier. She resumed her place at the dining table, her gaze shifting between Nathaniel, who was eating his dinner mutely next to her, and Malfoy at the other end of the table, stone-faced and focusing on his food without a glance for them. She herself was so exhausted that she felt nauseous in addition to her headache, and it was only imagining Mrs. Weasley's chastising look that she forced down small bites of food.

"I was nine when I had my first bout of magic."

Lost in thought, it took Hermione a moment to register that Malfoy had spoken. She paused in mid-gesture, her glass of water raised halfway to her mouth, and stared at him warily.

"I was playing hide and seek with my friends and was running out of time with all the good hiding places being already taken."

On her right, Nathaniel kept scraping his knife and fork against his plate, but Hermione knew he was listening by the way he watched Malfoy out of the corner of his eye.

"When they came looking for me, all the lights in the east wing of the Manor extinguished so they couldn't find me in the dark."

There was a moment of silence while Malfoy chewed his last bite of toast, looking straight ahead and a small crease between his eyebrows.

"There is still plenty of time for your magic to manifest. There is no rule in this matter," he finished, glancing briefly at Nathaniel before averting his gaze and withdrawing into silence again.

The little boy did not answer. He wiped the tomato sauce off his plate with his forefinger, licking it despite Hermione's half-disapproving, half-amused " _tsk tsk_ ", slid off his chair and scampered out of the kitchen. A moment later, the shrill voices of the _Rugrats_ sounded from the living room as Nathaniel switched on the television to watch his rightful dose of evening cartoons. Hermione got to her feet and started gathering the dishes from the table. Setting his knife and fork down, Draco handed her his empty plate, and her tired brown eyes caught his dull, gray ones for a split second, but just long enough for him to see the warm glint in them.

Hermione quietly closed the door of Nathaniel's room and dragged her feet to the sofa. She slumped down ungracefully, and not caring about Malfoy, who had flung himself across one of the armchairs with his legs swung over an armrest, tugged her shirt out of the waistband of her skirt and rolled up her sleeves. She stretched and sank the tips of her feet into the carpet, wishing she could push familiarity and take off her tights. Malfoy wasn't paying her any attention and was staring absently at the moving pictures on the muted television. Hermione gazed at the flashing commercials for a few minutes as well, before rubbing her bloodshot eyes.

After the aspirin she had taken, her headache had subsided enough for her to read to Nathaniel until he fell asleep, but the pill did not take away the painful knot of nerves between her shoulders nor the feeling of heavy exhaustion in her whole body. She considered kicking Malfoy out of the living-room and going to sleep, but she knew she wouldn't be able to. Despite her weariness, a thousand confused thoughts were buzzing in the back of her mind, and as soon as her head would hit the pillow, they would turn into an anxious maelstrom. Her gaze focused on Malfoy's profile silhouetting against the flickering light of the television screen in the otherwise dark living room, only streaked with the artificial rays of the street lamps streaming through the windows.

"It was… nice of you to say that to Nathaniel," said Hermione in a low voice not to wake the child in the next room.

Malfoy did not move. She hesitated for a second before speaking again:

"It really is a nice story. Most bouts of accidental magic are rather catastrophic."

Malfoy shifted, and as the room brightened briefly from the pictures on the television screen, she saw him give her a withering look and wanted to slap herself for her naivety.

"Oh," she muttered grimly. "You made that up, didn't you?"

Malfoy sniffed, turning back to the television.

"So you weren't nine when you had your first bout of magic?"

"I was four. The only person I know who had it so late is Goyle."

The fact that she couldn't see his face properly while talking to him made Hermione uncomfortable and she got up to switch on the lights. Malfoy winced when the electric glare of the lamp overhead hit his eyes.

"So the part about the game wasn't true either?" asked Hermione, resuming her spot in the middle of the sofa and tucking her legs under her.

"Oh yes, I used to invite all of these friends, and my mother would make cookies while a bunch of yelling kids ran throughout the Manor."

He looked over his shoulder, and Hermione noticed a small twitch at the corners of his mouth – a ghost of his mocking smirk. She had to refrain from rolling her eyes.

"How did it happen then?" she asked.

"We were at the Quidditch store in Diagon Alley and my father refused to buy the broom I wanted. It was a real racing broom, not a toy one, so certainly not fit for a four-year-old…"

"Let me guess…" muttered Hermione.

"I blew up the display case. Father had to pay for the damage and for the broom, which was also destroyed."

"Well, that sounds more in character," snorted Hermione.

This time, the corners of Malfoy's mouth visibly lifted, even if it was ever so slightly. Hermione leaned over and picked up the remote control from the coffee table to turn off the television; her eyes were stinging and helplessly drawn to the screen when it was on. Malfoy, who had also been mesmerized by it, turned away and removed his legs from the armrest only to put his feet on the coffee table. Hermione saw that he was twirling between his fingers the trick wand Nathaniel had forgotten to take to his room.

"Do you miss… Quidditch?" She was going to say "doing magic" but decided at the last moment it was too stupid a question. She cleared her throat awkwardly. "I remember you weren't playing much anymore in our sixth year," she added quietly.

Malfoy's inscrutable gaze rested on her.

"I didn't have the luxury to give it much thought," he said after a moment, and Hermione felt the foolish triviality of her question.

Malfoy looked away as to discourage her from any further conversation, but for a split second, his blank expression wavered, and his gaze flickered throughout the room, darting to the ceiling. Much like an animal watching the bars of his cage. And for the first time, Hermione was hit with the realization that he was well and truly trapped: trapped in her apartment, trapped in his life, trapped in his shattered self. He did not have the luxury to miss the game yet he couldn't help but miss the sky.

Hermione stood up from the sofa and went to the kitchen. Once behind the counter, she pulled her wand out of the pocket of her skirt and cast an Undetectable Extension Charm at the other pocket. Opening the fridge, she squatted down and retrieved four bottles of Butterbeer from the bottom shelf, stashing them in her magically extended pocket. Closing the door of the fridge, she left the kitchen area and crossed the living room to the window behind Malfoy's armchair. She sensed him watching her as she turned the window handle and threw the double pane open. She perched on the low windowsill and swung a leg over it.

"Granger, if my presence bothers you that much, just say it," sounded Malfoy's voice behind her. "There is no need to kill yourself."

But Hermione only cast him a slightly exasperated look over her shoulder and swung her other leg over the sill, putting her feet on the narrow metallic landing under the window and pushing herself through the frame and into the night outside. She set her hand on the cold rusty handrail of the fire escape ladder that ran up the back wall of the house and gave to the roof. The winter air wrapped her in its icy embrace, immediately making her teeth clatter as it bit her skin through the thin fabric of her blouse, sending chills up and down her spine and numbing her aching shoulders. Hermione took a few deep breaths and her tiredness wore off instantly. She leaned forward and peered at Malfoy through the open window.

"Are you coming or what?" she said.

She climbed the first few steps of the rickety ladder to make him some space on the landing, and once he had rather reluctantly clambered through the window, flicked her wand to close the window pane. Clutching the handrail, Hermione ascended the last steps, her bare feet already frozen from the cold seeping from the iron steps. She reached the top of the house and braced herself on her elbows on the edge of the roof. She could hear the old ladder creak and shake as Malfoy climbed it behind her. She struggled to keep a firm grip on the stone ledge as she propped herself up onto the roof.

"Granger…" she heard Malfoy growl warningly and glimpsed out of the corner of her eye his hand fly to her hip.

But next moment, she had rolled over the parapet and landed ungracefully on the roof on the other side. She quickly got to her feet and made a few steps along the narrow flat portion of the roof that ran around the building between the parapet and the slanting rooftop. The black slate and the thin patches of frost over it reflected the environing city lights and the feeble glow of the waning moon. Hermione heard Malfoy climb over the ledge and land on the roof with a thud. Without looking back, she kept walking, bending forward so she could hold cautiously onto the low parapet. Seeds had been carried there by the wind, and she could feel beneath her fingers their dry, frozen roots caught between the bricks.

Shivering from the cold, she released a sigh of relief when she suddenly went through something that felt like a sheet of warm water and stepped into a bubble of heated air. She lowered herself onto the flat roof, which was also warm like after a day in the sun, bunched up her skirt a little and sat cross-legged, her eyes level with the top of the ledge so she could still see the sea of black rooftops and the forest of lightning rods and chimneys stretching in every direction. The bright rectangles of the windows gleamed in the night here and there. The streetlamps and car lights blinked in the streets down bellow, but the house wasn't high enough for them to look like a web of light. From her spot, Hermione could see no farther than three blocks of houses ahead.

"Granger, if your plan is to push me off the roof, do it quickly."

Hermione looked up; Malfoy had stopped a few steps away from her, his arms wrapped around himself and his hands tucked under his armpits. With his black clothes, his body was a mere silhouette in the darkness, but she could see clearly his pale face and his white blond hair tossed by the wind.

"It's freezing," he gritted out, glaring at her with a mix of puzzlement and irritation, his brows furrowed and his jaw clenched to keep his teeth from clattering.

"Come over here then," smirked Hermione, patting the spot next to her.

Malfoy slowly walked over and she saw his eyes widen when he went through the invisible limit of the enchanted area.

"What have you done, Granger?" he hissed even though he was obviously relieved by the sudden warmth. "This is a Muggle area…"

Hermione shrugged dismissively, gazing over the parapet.

"I cast Muggle-repelling charms. Nobody comes here," she answered.

She sensed him watch her with what she imagined to be surprise at her breaking the law, but he didn't say anything more. He slowly sat down next to her and wrapped his arms around his knees. They sat in silence for a long moment. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione could see Malfoy cast glances all around and over his shoulder as though he expected to undergo a sudden attack. She leaned her back against the steep slanting rooftop behind her and looked up at the ghostly clouds drifting across the night sky and hiding the stars, which were already rarely visible because of the city lights. She tried to relax, but Malfoy's restless shifting was unnerving her. She sighed and sat up again.

"Tell me something," she said, turning to him.

Malfoy's expression hardened, but she shook her head.

"No, not a new name," she huffed impatiently. "You said you couldn't stand the silence. So go on, tell me something. Anything."

He looked down at his knees, his jaw set, and after a moment, Hermione thought he was never going to answer and turned away, gazing at the rooftops silhouetting in the distance with a somewhat glum look.

"I'm an excellent pickpocket."

Within the split second after she sensed rather than saw him move and registered the whispered words, her hand flew instinctively to her pocket, her whole body whirling to him and jerking away at the same time. But her wand was still there. Malfoy, however, produced seemingly out of nowhere a bottle of Butterbeer. Swiftly removing the cork, he tossed it over the parapet and brought the bottle to his lips. He took a swig and looked at her calmly. Hermione fumbled inside her magically extended pocket, her wand still firmly clutched in one hand, and counted only three bottles. The shadow of a smirk played briefly on Malfoy's lips.

Taking deep breaths, Hermione set her wand down next to her, feeling slightly embarrassed not by her reflexes but rather by the edginess they revealed, and pulled out a bottle, uncorking it and swallowing some cold Butterbeer. Malfoy sipped his in silence, his pale irises looking almost white as they reflected the light of the windows across the street. His eyes were following the progression of some Muggle car in the distance. Even though his expression was blank again, he was clearly enjoying the drink; Hermione watched his Adam's apple bob as he downed the bottle in a few big gulps. When there was almost nothing left, he paused and twirled it distractedly between his fingers. Hermione considered him with curiosity.

"So… is this how you've been surviving all these months? Stealing?" she asked, her brows furrowed although her voice wasn't reproachful.

Malfoy snorted.

"Why? Were you picturing me selling my body? I'm afraid I couldn't have fetched a good price out of it. The merchandise is rather damaged, you see."

His face remained perfectly straight and his voice flat, but Hermione felt her stomach lurch as the picture of the ugly scars stretching across his back flashed in her mind. She desperately searched for something to say.

"I sold my watch to a pawnbroker. Kept me living for the first month," said Malfoy, breaking the uncomfortable silence again.

Hermione's raised her eyebrows.

"You had enough money to live for a month off a single watch?"

He gave her a look that once would have been contemptuous but now only came off as weary. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Figures," she muttered.

"It was the one I got when I turned of age," said Malfoy evenly, putting down his empty bottle and letting himself go against the slanting roof, his long, thin hands folded on his hollow stomach.

Hermione did not know how to respond to that and fidgeted at the twinge of unwarranted guilt that shot through her stomach. She retrieved another bottle of Butterbeer out of her pocket and pushed it toward Malfoy. He took it and twirled it between his fingers. Even though the windows of the house opposite them were now dark, Hermione could see him give her a scrutinizing look.

"So what is it, Granger?" he asked, uncorking the bottle and holding it halfway to his mouth as he spoke. "Your secret hideout where you can drink in peace?"

Hermione let out a somewhat bitter laugh.

"Go on," she sighed. "You can say it."

"Say what?"

"That it's pathetic."

Suddenly, she didn't feel like finishing her Butterbeer anymore and turned the bottle upside down, watching the liquid glint dully while she emptied it in the gutter. An engine roared and tires screeched loudly as a motorcycle ran a red light somewhere in the distance. A broken lightning rod rattled in the wind. Malfoy did not say anything.


	7. Facing the music

**Chapter 7**

 **Facing the music**

 _Drip. Drip._

The heavy drops rip the air and crash against the smooth black marble floor, exploding into even tinier droplets of crimson. _Drip_. The sound of their fall resounds in the empty corridor, bounces off the walls, so loud that it could as well be a leaden bullet hitting the stone.

 _Drip. Plop. Drip._

He stands at the end of the long windowless hallway and listens as another series of droplets breaks the silence and rattles his bones. He feels every one of them as they splatter on the gleaming marble, even though they are falling so far away from where he stands – at the far end of the corridor, the thick liquid sliding down Father's chin and forming a small puddle at his feet. Father stands with his back turned to him, his tall figure like a statue. From here, he can only see the silvery glow of his long hair at the back of his head and his shape, clad in long black robes that seem carved in stone and blend with the walls and the dark tapestries. He is so far away. And it would take an eternity to walk down that corridor and reach him.

 _Drip. Plop._

Yet he can picture vividly the smears on the front of his robes, even darker than the cloth, and he knows the clotted red puddle around his polished shoes is growing.

 _You have to go all the way, Draco._

He hears the words as though Father is standing right behind him and whispers them into his ear.

 _You have to go all the way._

But he doesn't want to go down that corridor. He doesn't want to move at all. He can't move. He is rooted to the spot.

 _Drip. Drip._

 _You should have listened to me, Draco. She did not go all the way and look what happened to her._

The dread kicks in his gut with such force that for a moment he is dazed and his vision blurs. And when it comes into focus again, he sees her, crumbled halfway down the corridor like a dismantled doll. A flash of blond hair and all that crimson… _At least not on her mouth._ His eyes trail further, to her glassy, blue ones.

 _You should have gone all the way…_

Her voice explodes under his skull, blinding him. And yet she is so far away. Unreachable.

 _Mother…_

 _This is what's waiting for you…_

He opens his mouth and feels the disgustingly warm thick substance rise in his throat and flow through his parted lips. It spills out of his nostrils as he throws his head back and runs down his face, his throat, soaking the collar and the front of his shirt. He isn't even suffocating, he can't; where a moment ago was air, there is now this coppery-tasting liquid. He falls to his knees, spitting flows of crimson. There is no pain, only the overwhelming awareness of this foreign substance filling his lungs, his trachea, his mouth, and he knows he is dying, drowning in somebody else's blood.

 _You should have gone all the way._

No, he should go back, he has to find a way back. He can't die like this, he can't die now… Because for him there is no death, not as long as he has this cursed, mutilated soul! He is drowning in blood, but it's the dread that submerges him first and swallows him whole…

Brutal. This time, the awakening wasn't like rising to the surface out of deep waters but like colliding with a train running at full speed. For a moment, Draco only lay there, his mouth open in a desperate attempt to draw in some air as his ribcage was turned to stone and his lungs shriveled inside his chest. The wrung sheets, the t-shirt and pajama pants he was wearing – soaked-through with sweat – formed a cold gangue around his spread-out limbs. The knot right under his Adam's apple loosened at last; he swallowed convulsively a big gulp of air, and then sickness twisted his body. Draco rolled to his side, half-falling over the edge of the bed. He braced himself on his hands, his palms against the floor, before he managed to untangle his legs from the stranglehold of the sheets and scramble to the bathroom.

He slipped on the smooth tiles, his knees hitting the hard floor painfully, and reached out to grip the edge of the toilet and jerk himself to it with the sole force of his arms, immediately emptying the contents of his stomach into it. He remained bent over the toilet seat and gripping its edges until he had finished coughing up and spitting his last night's dinner and then fumbled for the flush, before slumping sideways onto the cool tiles. He lay on his side, still drenched in cold sweat but feeling hot after vomiting as though he had a fever. The picture of his mother's blank face with these horribly lifeless eyes was still imprinted on his retina and his every heartbeat sent waves of poisonous adrenaline coursing through his body.

He had run to her that day when he had found the door of the master bedroom open. She no longer used it after Father's arrest, preferring to sleep in her sitting room. Although he wasn't sure she slept much anymore. He had run to her even though the second he had pushed the door and glimpsed her arm lying across the carpet at the foot of the bed, he had known it was too late. And then he had run because it was the only thing to do, because they were already waiting to come for him and calling anyone to report Mother's death would have only accelerated the process. He had run without looking back, and the memory of his disapparating from the Manor while Mother's dead body was still warm made him jolt upright at once, sick to the stomach again.

Crouched before the toilet and shivering, his forehead pressed against the open lid, Draco blinked drowsily, watching a mix of bile and saliva dribble out of his mouth. In that moment, he could feel in his bones that last – maybe ever in his life – bit of magic he had performed to apparate somewhere at the outskirts of London. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists, the memory of his snapping his wand in half stinging his palms. At the time, he had been in a nearly catatonic state, unable to fully take stock of his actions, and had done it without much emotion and pushed by cold pragmatism; he had to do it if he didn't want to be found by Aurors, who had put a Tracking Charm on his wand. He had tossed the two useless wooden sticks still tied with something silvery into a Muggle bin and disappeared in the meanders of the city amid the thousands of passers-by.

The next days had passed in a blur, the fear only rarely dissipating the strange numbness that had overtaken him. It was taking him every bit of his strength to keep alert and find his way in the Muggle world, only separated by a few blocks of buildings from the Wizarding one and yet so foreign. Nothing distinguished him from these people anymore, not now that he was another nameless figure wandering the streets, without his wand and hiding from his own kind, and at the same time, he was nothing like them, maimed from within as he was. During the first days, his only care had been to know whether Mother had received a proper burial. At night, he had stalked the streets of Wizarding neighborhoods to try and find a discarded _Prophet._ And when he was finally sure that Mother's burial had been taken care of by her remaining sister – his aunt he had never seen – he had boarded a Muggle train and vanished for good.

With stiff, clumsy movements, Draco got to his feet and went to the sink to splash his face with cold water. He brushed his teeth thoroughly, watching his grayish, taut face reflecting in the mirror. He had had a week of respite from the ghosts inside his head since Granger had taken him back to her place. They had been merely shapeless shadows and murky colors behind his closed eyelids at night, but now they were coming back in force like a sudden surge of a creeping disease. He knew what had triggered them.

He looked at the untouched vial on the edge of the sink. He had been stupid not to drink it, but if his nightmares made him physically sick, the drugged numbness was worse. He had asked Granger – Draco clenched his fists at the thought, a muscle twitching in his cheek – to take him back to put an end to it, because he knew what came after this numbness that slowly disaggregated the mind. He knew he had already begun to slip into the madness that would soon make death seem like a welcome deliverance.

Draco switched off the light in the bathroom and went into the bedroom still shrouded in darkness. Beyond the window, the sky was tinged with a faint orange glow, with patches of faded dark blue where it was clear from the low clouds that reflected the light of the streetlamps. The day wasn't dawning yet. Draco stood still, his head tilted toward the bedroom door, listening. Granger had already lifted the Silencing Charms and he could hear her shuffling quietly in the main room. His lips tightened into a thin line and his face darkened as he wondered whether she had heard him being sick. His jaw clenched, he pushed the doorknob and stepped out of the bedroom.

Granger was perched on a bar stool at the kitchen counter. She hadn't dressed yet and was wearing an ugly fleece bathrobe that was so old that what once must have been a bright sky blue now looked a bluish gray. She had a leg hooked over the other and a porcelain bowl of coffee with milk between her hands. One of her bare feet was set on the iron ring around the legs of the bar stool and the other was swinging nervously in the air. The clothes she intended to put on for work – an anthracite pencil skirt and a blue and white striped blouse – were hanging from the back of an armchair. She cast him a displeased look when he moved into the living-room, having obviously been expecting some peace and quiet during her breakfast.

"'Morning, sunshine," she sniffed her usual attempt at sarcasm as he passed.

Draco headed for the sofa but Granger's makeshift bed was a mess of twisted blankets and flattened pillows. He paused next to the piano, brushing his fingertips against the black and white ivory keys. She had played Chopin the previous evening after she and the kid had returned from Saint Mungo's, but she wasn't playing in the mornings anymore. He knew something had changed. She was leaving for the Ministry at the crack of dawn, the dark circles under her eyes now never fading from her face, and when she came back in the evening, she looked positively ill. He wondered whether she had to attend the executions. Draco turned around and found her watching him. The aroma wafting from her bowl of coffee and the smell of burnt toast hanging in the air made his stomach growl. The nausea had subsided, and he felt weak and hungry.

"Help yourself," smirked Granger, motioning to the Muggle coffeemaker and the plate of toasts surrounded by jam jars on the worktop.

He rounded the counter and took a mug from a rack to pour himself some coffee.

"You didn't take the Sleeping Draught last night," sounded Granger's voice again, slightly accusing this time.

 _Shit_. She had heard him.

Draco leaned against the worktop and looked at her coolly, stirring his coffee.

"What do you care?"

"I don't," she replied. "But I'd rather not hear you vomiting while I'm taking my breakfast."

His lip curled.

"Then let Lovegood lift the Silencing Charms."

"It was one of the conditions, Malfoy," said Granger sternly. "You have to take Sleeping Draughts if you want to stay here."

"And if I don't?" he grunted.

They both knew it wasn't an option. Granger quirked an eyebrow, looking condescending, and he wished he could hex that smirk off her face.

"You are free to go," she said sweetly. "But I reckon it will be difficult to make yourself a cup of hot coffee or to keep your blanket clean when you'll be crouching under a bridge."

"Right. Free coffee and bed sheets are why I'm here," he sneered grimly, leaving the kitchen and heading back to the bedroom, holding the mug of coffee in one hand and a couple of warm toasts in the other.

"Luna isn't taking Nat' to the Burrow today; she's going to stay here," called Granger as he reached the door of her room.

"Great."

"Be n –"

He kicked the door shut and paused, listening; Granger set her bowl down on the counter with a little more force than necessary and huffed in frustration, before starting to bustle throughout the room to get ready while she waited for Lovegood to arrive.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

Hermione ran her gloved finger down the yellowed page, sometimes pausing to decipher some line of the handwritten table of contents. The thick yet fragile book threatened to crumble between her fingers when she occasionally flipped through the pages to check the sections that seemed suspicious. If she were being honest, nearly everything in the manuscripts gathered in the Chamber bordered on suspicious – if not downright dangerous – information, and she would have gladly burned half of them. But her job was to find anything specifically related to Horcruxes, and in that matter, she wasn't even remotely close.

She turned the thin, crackled pages carefully, her features crinkling into a scowl of disgust, before finally closing the book and getting up from her desk to take it to two long rows of trestle tables at the far end of the Archives Chamber and slightly apart from the rest. Three tables of the nearest row were covered in scrolls and books she had already reviewed and neatly arranged on their surface. The one she was carrying went to join them on the last portion of free space on the third table. Hermione's gaze shifted between the two rows, her expression dark; before her lay hundreds of pages containing information about blood magic, human entrails haruspicy, necromancy (including a very detailed guide to creating Inferi)… Even if they weren't cursed, she wouldn't have wanted to touch them with her bare hands for anything in the world. These were the ones deemed appropriate to be returned to their owners. On the farthest row of tables however – the one for manuscripts the Ministry wanted to confiscate definitively – were only two black leather-bound books: a lengthy biography of Herpo the Foul that only vaguely alluded to his creating a Horcrux.

Hermione sniffed with contempt, rubbed the back of her neck and returned to the main rows of trestle tables to pick a new manuscript. After a quick glance at her watch that told her she had an hour left before the end of the working day, she went for a relatively short scroll of parchment with remnants of black wax on its edges and returned to her desk, slumping down wearily into her chair. She looked at her watch again. It was an unconscious gesture she caught herself doing almost every ten minutes throughout the day. The sterile atmosphere inside the enchanted Chamber but mainly the nature of her work weighed on her. She was grateful to work alone so she could take small breaks whenever she needed them – and that was every hour – otherwise she wouldn't have been able to go until lunch hour and even less until the end of the working day without being physically sick. The words she read wove into her brain and felt like poison.

Half an hour before the watch hands reached six o'clock, the eerie silence inside the Archives was disrupted by a dry cough. Hermione turned on her chair to see Monkstanley standing in the doorway of the Chamber and running his scornful gaze over the trestle tables. He would come every day half an hour before the end to assess her progress and sometimes popped in randomly with a grim-looking Curse-Breaker without ever saying a word to her. He set her teeth on edge with his manner to scan her from head to toe through his iron-rimmed glasses as though he expected to catch her red-handed violating the rules as he obviously imagined she would do.

Hermione turned her back to him, and a moment later, she knew he was gone. With a wave of her wand, she sent the scroll of parchment she hadn't finished reading back to its place on the trestle tables and reached inside her bag at the foot of her chair. She dedicated the last thirty minutes of her working days to another task. She retrieved a notebook and tore a blank page out of it, adding to the bits of shredded paper along the binding and leaving it even thinner than it already was. She placed the torn page on the table before her and scribbled three letters at the top:

 _T. M. R._

She stilled, staring at it intensely, her forearms lying on either side. From time to time, she picked up her quill to add another inscription – a date, a word, some of them places: _Albania, Black Forest, 1997-1998: traveling, Malfoy Manor…_ When her watch showed six o'clock, she flicked her wand and the paper jumped in the air and burst into flames until there was nothing left. Hermione tidied her desk, hung her coat and her bag in the crook of her arm and made her way out of the Chamber.

" _Light out_ ," she muttered as she opened the door and stepped over the threshold.

When she looked over her shoulder, everything behind her was limbo. The door closed soundlessly.

"Exit," said Hermione.

Her voice was raspy after a whole afternoon without speaking. The walls of the circular Entrance Chamber started to rotate, speeding by in a gleaming black blur streaked with the bluish glow of the torches. When they stopped, the black door right opposite her swung on its hinges. The Auror standing guard on the other side ran a golden Probity Probe up and down her sides and over her bag to make sure she didn't leave with something that didn't belong to her, before he let her pass. She hurried away down the long corridor, her steps echoing around her, but as the golden grilles of the lifts came into view, something poked her in the back of her head and swished over her right ear. Hermione started and noticed a lonely purple Interdepartmental Memo fluttering above her head. She snatched it in midair and unfolded it.

 _Miss Granger,_

 _Come to my office after work,_

 _K. S._

 _M. of M._

With a small frown, Hermione slipped the note into the pocket of her skirt and stepped into an empty lift, pushing the button of the first level. The cabin rattled on upwards, stopping at every level to take in groups of witches and wizards leaving work. When the disembodied voice announced _'Level One: Office of the Chief Warlock and Headquarters of the Ruling Committee'_ , she had barely enough space to breathe and her ears were ringing with the loud chatter of the people around her and the screeches of some infuriated creature a nervous-looking witch was carrying in a wooden crate. Hermione elbowed her way out of the cabin and sighed with relief when she found herself in the hushed atmosphere of the first level. There was nobody to be seen in the wide carpeted hallway, but some of the office doors stood ajar; the members of the Ruling Committee working there wouldn't be leaving before long.

Indeed, when she reached Kingsley's office and peered through the open doorway, she found him standing by his desk, frowning down at a long scroll of parchment that hung to the floor and sipping from a cup. The strong aroma of coffee was floating in the air. Too tired for etiquette, Hermione let herself in without knocking. Kingsley raised his head and his face split into a faint smile, which looked unnatural on his drawn features.

"Hermione," he greeted, his voice warm but his eyebrows still knitted in a worried frown.

He rounded his massive desk and went to carefully close the door while she plopped down into a high-backed chair. Kingsley settled into his leather armchair opposite her and folded his hands, looking much like a kind uncle receiving his favorite niece. Hermione thought he looked more and more like a politician and less like an Auror and pursed her lips.

"How was your first week at the Department of Mysteries?" he asked when it became obvious she wouldn't be the first to talk.

"Apart from the fact that I want to gauge my eyes out by the end of the day?" snorted Hermione glumly.

She seemed to realize too late her rudeness and bowed her head, massaging the bridge of her nose bracingly.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I just… Most of the things I see there are absolutely vile."

Kingsley shook his head sympathetically.

"I heard they placed you alone in the Archives Chamber," he said. "I can imagine it's even harder to work in these conditions. Have you seen any members of the Committee down there?"

Hermione blinked, wondering why he was asking and for what reason members of the Committee would venture into the Department of Mysteries.

"Hmm, no," she answered slowly. "I haven't even seen the other Unspeakables, except for the Head of the Department. It's not the liveliest of places… But I ran into Percy and a few other clerks going up from the Court Rooms the other day. I thought all the trials have been postponed…"

She gave Kingsley a questioning look but he didn't seem to notice it and got up to pour himself a cup of coffee. He held up another cup as if to ask her if she wanted one, but she shook her head.

"How is the sorting going?" spoke Kingsley again. "I hear there is not much to confiscate."

Hermione watched his profile with attention as he added sugar to his coffee, looking only mildly interested.

"If I had my say in the matter, I would confiscate everything," she answered at last. "I don't understand why the Ministry is returning these manuscripts to their owners. More than half of them are in direct violation of our most basic laws, and I'm not even talking about the highly questionable moral nature of all of them."

Kingsley smiled.

"Well, the Ministry doesn't want people to think it's interfering in their private affairs…"

Hermione held back a snort.

"The Wizarding community has already lapsed into psychosis. The raids are not helping the Ministry's image, especially when they concern witches and wizards who were considered perfectly respectable before the war. For now, we only have a warrant to confiscate anything related to Horcruxes, so yes, I'm afraid everything else will be returned to their owners. As long as the knowledge within these manuscripts is not put to use, the Ministry has no ground to interfere."

Kingsley paused, sipping his coffee and watching Hermione over the lip of his cup. She held his gaze, looking somber yet defiant. The shadow of a smile twitched the corners of Kingsley's mouth.

"You shouldn't worry about this, Hermione," he sighed. "The Ministry now has a good reason to keep a close eye on those having this… controversial knowledge in their possession. Besides, do you really think anyone would risk putting it to use nowadays?"

Hermione didn't answer but bowed her head in reluctant agreement. Kingsley cast a glance at the elegant, wrought gold clock that stood on the green-veined marble mantelpiece over his private fireplace. It was ten to seven.

"Godric's beard, it's getting late!" he said. "I don't see time pass with all this coffee and paperwork… Almost makes me regret my time at the Auror Office. I'm sorry I made you stay so late. You should go home, Hermione; you look like you could use a good night's sleep."

The young woman watched him without moving from her chair.

"Is that all you summoned me for?" she asked, frowning.

Kingsley looked up from the binder made of dragon leather he had picked up and raised his eyebrows.

"Summoned?" he repeated. "Oh, it was nothing formal, Hermione. But you can imagine a member of the Ruling Committee can't simply go down to the Department of Mysteries and invite an employee for a friendly talk. I just wanted to make sure you were doing fine."

"Right…" muttered Hermione and stood up, heading for the door.

She had her hand on the doorknob when Kingsley called her again.

"Hermione, if you're having any trouble or see something that is making you wonder at the Department of Mysteries, feel free to come and tell me about it," he said, looking at her insistently.

Feeling like they had finally gotten to the actual point of this meeting, Hermione took a moment to appraise Shacklebolt with a last gauging look, taking in the new lines on his forehead, the circles under his eyes that even his dark skin failed to conceal, and that carefully composed, especially vigilant expression on his face she had already noted when they had spoken at the Burrow. She nodded slowly and left his office.

She was heading for the Apparition Point at the far end of Atrium, mingling with the flow of employees that poured out of the lifts to go back to their homes, when she realized as she slipped her arms into her coat that she had forgotten her scarf inside the Archives Chamber. Cursing under her breath, Hermione doubled back. She wasn't allowed to leave any personal belongings inside the Chamber at the risk of them being permeated by the curses the Unspeakables and the Curse-Breakers were still working on in her absence.

Returning to the lifts, Hermione sank back into the depths of the Ministry, her heart heavy as everyone else ascended to the Atrium. The Department of Mysteries was completely deserted. No sound was coming from the narrow passageway of steps that led down to the Courtrooms on Level Ten. Hermione hurried down the long corridor to the Entrance Chamber where she had to submit once again to a search.

"Archives Chamber," she huffed once inside the circular room.

The walls spun silently, and when they stopped, she strode without waiting to the door opposite her. But just as she stepped into limbo and before she summoned the light, Hermione heard another door open. She was going to quickly close the door of the Archives Chamber to allow the walls to rotate so the people going out of the other Chamber could ask for the exit, but as she looked over her shoulder, she glimpsed a slice of the Chamber that had opened and her hand unwittingly stopped the door from closing. She stood in the complete darkness, peering through the crack and ready to close the door the moment the Unspeakables would close theirs.

Monkstanley slowly walked out of the Death Chamber, closely followed by an Unspeakable she did not know and who held the door for the people coming after them: an Auror with a sickle-shaped face who she knew assured the transport of prisoners between Azkaban and the mainland, two members of the Ruling Committee who were also part of MLE Department, and the Chief Warlock Fawley. Hermione held her breath, her mind racing as she tried to figure out the reasons for such a curious gathering. Fawley was lingering in the doorway and looking thoughtfully inside the Death Chamber. The unknown Unspeakable was still holding the door for him. Monkstanley's dry and snappish voice filled the air.

"Are you sure she will be able to _hear_?" he asked the members of the MLE Department.

"Our records say she witnessed a Muggle neighbor drown in their swimming pool when she was eight," answered the tall blond woman in night blue robes.

Next to her, the stout mustachioed man who looked like an oversized beaver nodded.

"How do we keep her from talking?" frowned Fawley, turning to them. "We don't need the Wizarding community to be any more panic-stricken."

"Memory Charm," replied Monkstanley carelessly.

"If anyone finds out…" scowled Fawley. "The law…"

He stepped into the circular room. The door of the Death Chamber swung on its hinges and Hermione quickly closed her door. The light from the antechamber and the sound of the conversation vanished.

" _Light_ ," she breathed.

She blinked in the sudden brightness, her hand still resting flat against the door panel. It was all very well to tell herself that she had no business in Monkstanley's and the Committee's affairs, but her mind was teeming with questions. Why were they in the Death Chamber? Another execution? The Committee had far enough execution rooms already. But maybe they wanted to leave no trace… Hermione shook her head. She had enough to deal with without adding a conspiracy theory about the Ministry, which was incidentally her current employer. She had to hurry if she wanted to leave the Department before Monkstanley came back and the Curse-Breakers entered the Archives.

Hermione went up the central aisle between the trestle tables and spotted her scarf that had fallen to the floor under her chair. She picked it up, returned, half-running, to the door, and muttering ' _Light out'_ , left the Archives. The Auror standing watch outside the Entrance Chamber gave her a circumspect look as she stood slightly winded and visibly bothered while he passed the Probing Probe down the sides of her body. When he was done, she scurried away down the long, echoing corridor and was relieved to find an empty lift waiting for her.

The din of hundreds of voices and footsteps greeted her when she emerged into the bustling Atrium. She weaved her way through the crowd of employees, starting once again in the direction of the Memorial Wall and the Apparition Point at the other end of it, but suddenly stopped, gazing uncertainly to her left. Biting her lip, she finally seemed to make up her mind and walked over to the large marble counter opposite the Security desk. The young witch in deep purple robes sitting behind it didn't raise her head from her copy of _Witch Weekly_ when Hermione dropped her bag onto the counter and took out a pen and a notebook. She ripped a page out of it and started writing without a second's reflection as though she had been mentally rehearsing her letter for a long time.

 _Need to talk. Something's going on._

 _Need information on the file you've been working on with the Ministry last June._

The tip of the Muggle pen stilled over the paper. Hermione stared unseeingly at the words, her lips paling. _Last June_ … She had been a wreck back then and had refused to work on the file with him. And then, it had been his turn to let them all down. Hermione blinked and quickly scribbled the last words as though she was afraid she might change her mind.

 _I hope you are well._

 _Have the decency to answer._

 _\- Hermione_

"To whom?" asked the young witch in a bored voice when she handed her the securely sealed letter and a few Knuts.

"Harry Potter. Thank you."

The witch nodded and disappeared through a door behind the counter. Hermione crossed the Atrium without looking back.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

"How did it go?" whispered Hermione, casting a look over her shoulder while she followed Luna into the entrance hallway to make sure Malfoy and Nathaniel were out of earshot.

It was nearly half past eight, and for once, Luna had stayed for dinner, which, if it weren't for her chatting with Nathaniel, would have passed in complete silence. Hermione was waiting for the Aspirin pill she had taken to take effect – cursing herself for still not having made time to go to the Apothecary in Diagon Alley and buy a Pain-Relieving Potion – and Malfoy had once again retreated into oblivious silence.

"It was okay, I guess," answered Luna in an equally low voice as she slipped her feet into her flowery rubber boots. "Nat' was a bit quiet today, though."

Hermione sighed and crossed her arms, leaning her shoulder against the wall. She wasn't surprised; the little boy was always even more withdrawn than usual after their weekly visits to Saint Mungo's.

"And Malfoy?" she muttered.

Luna, who was now winding an old Ravenclaw scarf around her neck, paused and turned her protuberant silvery eyes to Hermione with an uncharacteristically thoughtful look in them.

"He was quiet too," she said. "In fact, he stayed in his room the whole day and joined us only minutes before you came home."

Hermione's expression darkened a little more, both at her room being now so naturally referred to as _Malfoy's_ and at the news of him being in a foul mood.

"I'd better go then," said Luna louder in her normal singing voice. "I hope the Apothecary hasn't closed yet… They have Dad's Calming Potions."

She tilted her head, examining Hermione's face with a somewhat dreamy look.

"You look like you are about to fall," she commented bluntly. "I'll pick a few potions for you too."

Hermione winced, running a hand down the side of her face as though she tried to feel the signs of tiredness, and opened her mouth to protest, but Luna was already going past her to lean through the doorway of the living-room. Malfoy wasn't visible, but Nathaniel was sitting cross-legged on the carpet next to the coffee table and was drawing something while watching his evening cartoons out of the corner of the eye. Bright pencils were scattered on the floor around him.

"Good night, little buddy!" called Luna, smiling. "See you tomorrow to take you to the Burrow."

The boy grinned without tearing his eyes away from his drawing and nodded. Luna exchanged a look with Hermione, pulled her into a brief hug, took her wand out of the messy bun on blond waves at the top of her head, and disapparated with a loud _crack_. Hermione returned to the living-room and mussed fondly Nathaniel's hair as she passed. She rounded the counter of the open kitchen and stopped, her face falling.

Malfoy had drawn his chair back and was sitting with his bare feet casually propped up on another one. He hadn't bothered to change his clothes that morning and his arms were crossed over his wrinkled pajama t-shirt. He was gazing over the kitchen counter at the flashing television screen with a blank look. On the table on his right were piled dirty plates with the remnants of their dinner, half-empty glasses, and a large pan with smears of tomato sauce all over it.

Suddenly, Hermione felt anger flare in her chest, even more powerful in her general state tiredness. Her jaw set, she grabbed the saucepan from the table and strode to the sink. The pan clanked loudly against the metallic bottom as she tossed it carelessly into the sink, the noise disrupting the steady buzzing of the television. She whirled around and saw that Malfoy had turned his head to look at her. Ignoring him, she started gathering the glasses from the table with sharp gestures. She took three in her hands, but as she returned to the sink, the one she had tucked under her arm slipped and crashed against the floor, water and glass shards flying everywhere. Hermione stopped dead, breathing heavily.

"Everything is alright, buddy," she smiled faintly over her shoulder to Nathaniel, who had gotten to his feet and was peering at her with uncertainty. "It slipped…"

Her voice broke on the last word and the anger she was feeling turned into blinding rage mingled with a sense of humiliation. She turned away quickly to hide the tears she felt welling at the corners of her eyes. She had always hated herself in these moments when, exhausted and nervous, she lost control over her temper. At Hogwarts, and especially in their third and fifth year, her housemates were the first to suffer from her sudden bouts of anger in periods of stress, and in that moment, she felt as though all the memories she was ashamed of were rising to the surface and added to her current embarrassment.

Hermione stepped carefully over the glass splinters, deposited the three remaining glasses into the sink next to the saucepan and pulled out her wand to vanish the mess. She glimpsed Nathaniel, who had resumed drawing, and resolutely avoiding looking at the figure still sitting at the table, opened the tap and plunged her hands under the flow of hot water, hoping for it to soothe her.

"Something wrong, Granger?" drawled Malfoy.

His voice was flat and almost bored. Hermione inhaled sharply, choking on the painful lump that obstructed her throat. With slow, deliberate movements, she cut the water and turned around, leaning against the kitchen worktop with her hands braced on the edge of it on either side of her hips. For a moment, she glared at the gleaming tiled floor, her face pale and her lips grayish in the cold electric light of the lamp overhead. She raised her gaze and her slightly bloodshot eyes rested on the Slytherin.

"Do you even care?" she hissed quietly through gritted teeth, her eyes boring into his with angry intensity.

For a split second, a small crease appeared between Malfoy's eyebrows, but then he considered her with the same blank look.

"What are you talking about?"

Hermione took a deep breath and ran a hand through her hair, forgetting that she hadn't brushed it since morning and struggling to free her fingers out of her unruly curls.

"Do you care that I'm working my ass off, providing you with food and shelter, protecting you when it could cost me my own freedom?" she whispered in a bitter voice. "Do you care that I took –" she broke off and glanced at Nathaniel, but he had turned the volume of the television up and was mesmerized by the colorful cartoons, " – that I took up the most horrible, disgusting job to save your wretched little life while you sit there doing nothing and only sucking everything you can out of me like a giant leech?"

Hermione closed the distance between her and the table and set her palms on its surface, leaning over it towards him.

"What I'm asking you, Malfoy, is why did you not once ask me whether I even started working on your sick case?" she finished, her eyes blazing.

Malfoy held her gaze. His face was impassive, but his cold gray eyes weren't blank anymore but hard as steel.

"I have no doubt you started working on my sick case the minute I told you what it was about," he answered in a low voice. "I don't believe you would want to prolong my stay in your vicinity any longer than necessary."

Hermione straightened and looked down at him with something akin to disbelief. After a moment of silent staring, she shook her head and returned to the sink. She gripped the edge of the worktop, her back turned to him, and her whole body seemed to sag, her shoulders hunching, as though she was suddenly overcome with exhaustion.

"There is a new Chamber at the Department of Mysteries," she said quietly, careful not to be heard from the living-room. "The Ministry has been collecting manuscripts from all over the country. They want to confiscate anything mentioning this form of magic."

"Why?"

She didn't imagine it; there was fear in Malfoy's voice. She didn't turn to look at him.

"I guess they just want to make sure nobody will have the idea to follow Tom Riddle's example," she shrugged wearily.

She opened the tap and cast a sarcastic look at Malfoy over her shoulder. He had put his feet on the floor and was sitting stiffly on the edge of his chair, his features taut.

"Don't you worry," she said. "I don't think they know they are already late for this."

She poured some detergent into the saucepan and started washing it. Her hands were shaking. There was a loud clunk again.

"Granger."

She started. Malfoy had approached silently and was now standing on her left. She kept scrubbing the saucepan with the sponge, stubbornly refusing to look in his direction.

"Granger, you do remember that you are a witch, right?"

She glanced up. He was looking at her trembling hands. Hermione felt blood creep up her cheeks. She set the saucepan down but didn't take her wand out. She just stood there, gazing bitterly at the running water with her hands hanging at her sides. Malfoy let out an exasperated sigh and stepped forward, making her instinctively take a step back. He picked up the sponge and proceeded cleaning the saucepan and then the glasses himself. Hermione watched him in silence, failing to hide the astonishment from her face, but Malfoy clearly had no idea of what he was doing, and after a few minutes, she pulled her wand out of her pocket and waved it at the dishes on the table, levitating them onto the worktop and then casting several Scourgifying charms to clean them. When everything was cleaned, she sent the plates and the cutlery to their places in the cupboards around the kitchen.

"Here," she said, handing Malfoy a checkered towel as he waited with water dripping from his hands.

Hermione took a seat at the table and massaged her temples.

"The point of what I was telling you is that I'm the one in charge of the sorting of these manuscripts. Last week, I became part of the Unspeakables."

She sensed Malfoy freeze behind her. She could feel the air getting thick with the unspoken questions hanging between them.

"Have you- Did you find anything?" whispered Malfoy.

She ought to have told him that it couldn't be long before she did, that if there were a place where they had every chance to find the needed information, it was now the Archives Chamber in the Department of Mysteries… But her head was throbbing with a dull pain and anger and bitterness were still simmering within her.

"I did not come across any mention of what you want yet," she replied somberly.

She looked up and regretted her words instantly. Malfoy was standing still and looking at her with bleak eyes, the damp towel still clutched between his hands. His pale face was ashen. He dropped his gaze, slowly put the towel down on the table, and left the kitchen without a word. She saw him cross the living-room with his head bowed, and a moment later, the door of her bedroom slammed behind him.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

 _Nothing._

Draco sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his hands in his lap. He felt his fingertips grow cold and numb.

 _Granger didn't find anything._

 _It had only been a week…_

He closed his eyes and flexed his hands, focusing on his breathing.

 _Granger had all the manuscripts likely to contain the information he needed at her disposal and she found nothing._

If there was anything to be found at all… Who would make a Horcrux only to backtrack? Who would sabotage the process because they were too scared, too disgusted, too _weak_ to go all the way, knowing they would have to face the consequences of having a maimed, unstable soul? Draco buried his face in his hands, suffocating. There was a small knock on the door.

"What?" he barked, looking over his shoulder.

The door slowly swung forward and Granger stepped inside the room. She stopped on the threshold, peering at him almost warily with wide eyes, her brows knitted together. _That fucked-up pity again._

"What?" he repeated harshly.

"I was wondering if you were going to bed already," said Granger, watching him worriedly. "I wanted to know if I could cast the Silencing Charms…"

He turned away, glaring at the window opposite him. It looked like a blackboard with the night outside.

"Do whatever you want," he scowled, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "Since when do I have a say here?"

He sensed Granger's presence hovering in the doorway for a few more seconds, her inquisitive gaze boring into the back of his head. She finally backed out of the room and closed the door quietly. He considered drinking the contents of the vial still waiting on the bathroom sink. It would certainly relieve the ugly fear gnawing at him. He clenched his fists, watching the bluish veins and the pale scar tissue stand out on his left forearm. Getting to his feet, he went to switch off the light, before slipping under the blankets. He wasn't going to give in and erase what little was left of him.

* * *

 **A/N:** As usual, read and don't hesitate to review, I'm looking forward to reading your thoughts!


	8. Mozart murdered

**Chapter 8**

 **Mozart murdered**

Everything was too loud. The silence of the night and the background noises she usually didn't notice – the monotonous tapping of the drizzle against the windows, the feeble sputtering whirring of the old fridge on her left – were ringing in her ears. Everything was too bright. In the darkness, the rays of pallid unnatural light streaming through the only window that wasn't curtained for the night inexorably drew her gaze and assaulted her dilated pupils. Hermione forced down another gulp of sweetened tea that failed to tone down the bitter taste of Valerian root, which was the main ingredient of the Calming Draught she had mixed in it. She blinked, straining to keep her eyes open.

The potion was making its way in her system, soothing her frayed nerves and diffusing a reassuring warmth in her clammy hands and her cold feet. Her heart wasn't beating as fast anymore. It was steady and felt almost too slow as she sat clutching her mug, still alert, her mind buzzing with a hundred unrelated thoughts, peering anxiously into the darkness. The shadows were growing, moving, deepening at the edges of her vision. Her surroundings were becoming blurred. The pleasant warmth induced by the Calming Draught had now taken over her entire body. Hermione stubbornly blinked away the drowsiness that made her eyelids feel so heavy, fear spurring her to stay awake. She didn't take a Sleeping Draught on purpose; she couldn't allow herself to fall back asleep, because as soon as she would give in, the visions would return. She wasn't supposed to see them… She had promised herself she wouldn't… She had erased them…

A lonely car was creeping up the damp street below the windows. The rumbling of its engine was fading away, fusing with the pitter-patter of the drizzle relentlessly washing the window panes… It was a relaxing sound that was lulling her to sleep… Was she still sitting? Her heart contracted forcefully and released a wave of fearful adrenaline with its next beat, hammering a few more times against her solar plexus as she straightened with a shudder. She took a sharp breath, shaking herself. She had been too heavy-handed with the dosing of the potion. Hermione rubbed her eyes, breathing deeply to oxygenate her brain and clear her foggy mind. Hazy colors were popping in the blackness behind her eyelids, everything was swimming…

 _She was out of breath, her heart feeling ready to burst… She had to keep running, zigzagging between the dark figures rising from the ground all around her… Lightning struck everywhere, green, red, white, tossing her from side to side… The ground was quaking, falling away beneath her feet as giants stamped it into dust and ruins… But she kept running, lightning flying from her wand too, desperate to reach the edge of this crumbling world full of monstrous silhouettes… Lightning struck green far away ahead of her, and the patches of color suddenly solidified, took shape in all their horror! She ran faster, only vaguely aware that the guttural, anguished scream echoing around her was escaping her own throat… Ron was falling to the ground… The moment he would hit it, it would all be over! She knew she was already too late, that she could never reach him… Ron was falling to the ground and Rowle was there, chained to the iron armchair of the Execution Room and utterly oblivious to what he had just done…_

The muffled sound of a bundle being dropped onto the rickety metallic landing of the fire-escape ladder outside snapped her out of her slumber. The light of the streetlamps dappling the wall opposite the window was briefly shielded by a large shadow that took flight from the landing. Hermione started and gripped the edge of the counter as she felt her body tilt to the floor, threatening to fall off the bar stool. She looked around with a haggard gaze; the luminous-dial clock radio under the television set showed six in the morning. Trying to remember why she was waking up sitting in the kitchen, Hermione rubbed her left forearm, on which her head had been resting and that was now prickling unpleasantly as blood rushed back into it.

She slid off the bar stool and made a few unsteady steps. In the half-light, the furniture was only little more than the shadows. She tripped on something that felt like a heavy cushion and remembered that she had left her bag in the middle of the floor. A faint golden glow was filtering through the crack under Nathaniel's door; he hadn't extinguished his night light. He never did on the eve of their weekly visits to Saint Mungo's. Hermione suddenly remembered what had awakened her and tiptoed across the living-room. She opened the window that gave to the fire-escape ladder and leaned over the windowsill to pick up the _Sunday Prophet_ the owl had delivered. It had been kept dry by an Impervius Charm. She couldn't help but feel a hint of disappointment when she didn't find any letter beside the newspaper. Closing the window quietly and wiping her bare arm speckled with raindrops, she went to sit on the sofa, nestling atop her thick comforter of her makeshift bed.

"- _Lumos_ ," she muttered, taking her wand from under her pillow.

A cold light bathed the front page of the _Prophet_. Hermione scanned it quickly and her brows rose high on her forehead. Since the end of the war, the trials, the executions, and the new decrees were the only things making the headlines. Astonishment permeating her face, Hermione examined the picture of seven witches in Quidditch robes hovering on their brooms above the lawn of a large pitch. Ginny's face was looking up at her and smiling fiercely. _'The Harpies are rebuilding their team: a game changer for the next championship?'_ read the title. Hermione frowned, the pleasure of seeing her friend quickly erased by the grim voice of reason that told her it couldn't be anything but the Ministry playing with the public opinion. People were getting sick of always reading about raids and endless manhunts and they were fully aware of it.

Hermione flipped through the pages, skimming through the articles without finding anything new. She almost missed the discrete insert tucked at the bottom of one of the last pages:

' _Unidentified body found in Knockturn Alley'_

The few lines informed that nobody had claimed the body – an old wizard in his seventies, absent from the Ministry records – and that he was going to be incinerated. Hermione stared blankly at the words and then tossed the paper to the side. She ran her hands through her hair and exhaled slowly. Letting herself go against the back of the sofa, she gazed glumly at her hands in her lap in the dim light of her wand next to her.

Absent from the Ministry records… _Lies_. They had probably put his whole family on probation and requisitioned their home and their belongings as compensation for a more or less arbitrary list of war crimes. Having nowhere to go and nobody to take care of him, the old man had probably died from cold and hunger – if not from humiliation – like so many others that had been found in the streets or in the wilderness throughout the winter. _Ugly, disgusting lies. Ugly, meaningless waste._ They had lost so much already. The gaunt faces of the witches and wizards huddled in the filthy corners of Diagon Alley came to her mind. The rage she felt for the dead wasn't nearly as powerful as the one she felt for those who were still alive, for the lost potential of these sabotaged lives. What was the phrase already? ' _Mozart condemned, Mozart murdered_.'

Hermione kicked the newspaper off the couch with her foot. Another face floated in her mind, half-hidden by an uneven beard, framed with matted white-blond hair, dull eyes peering at her with a crazed look from their sunken sockets. She didn't doubt his ability to survive anymore, but sooner or later he would have been caught, and if not, something told her he would have simply and voluntarily given up. There was something absurd and unacceptable about the idea of Malfoy dying in the streets. Hermione stood up from the couch and silently crossed the living-room to her bedroom door.

The light of her wand danced on the walls and the shadows of the furniture sprang to life as she executed a series of intricate wand movements to lift the Silencing Charms. She stepped closer to the door, listening. For a long moment, there wasn't any sound coming from the other side. Then quiet shuffling indicated that Malfoy was stirring and turning in his sleep, but it lasted only for half a minute and complete silence quickly restored inside the bedroom.

Hermione returned to the kitchen and filled herself a glass of water. She sat at the counter, her fingers curled around the cool glass, and gazed glumly at the orange square of the window behind the sofa. She would be unable to get back to sleep now. A myriad of confused thoughts had awakened and was swirling restlessly inside her head – a myriad of names, dates, and facts stuck in her mind and none of which was of any use. She wasn't making any progress. Another week had passed at the Department of Mysteries and only one new manuscript had joined the biography of Herpo the Foul on the trestle tables at the far end of the Archives Chamber. It was a translation of an ancient Greek parchment about a nameless slave who – after having killed Herpo's own tamed Basilisk and the first one ever bred – had destroyed the wizard's Horcrux with the snake's fang. He had then succumbed to his injuries from the fight with the Basilisk, and being a slave, his identity hadn't been considered important enough to be recorded for posterity.

In the meantime, her list of issues in that matter was quite literally growing longer. Despite the initial terms of their agreement, Malfoy wasn't giving her a new name every day, and sometimes two or three days passed without his adding to the list, but as she didn't seem to be likely to need it anytime soon, she didn't even attempt to pressure him. She didn't keep a written trace of it and only repeated the names in her head once or twice a day like a litany: four she already knew from the beginning – _Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, Thorfinn Rowle_ – and others that had added up later – _Bellatrix Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, Corban Yaxley, Avery Jr., Lester Selwyn, Samuel Travers_ … _Selwyn_ …

 _Mildred Selwyn_. Only once in the Archives Chamber had she remembered the name of the short mousy witch she had seen in the long corridor of the Department of Mysteries while heading for work on Thursday morning. She had barely glimpsed the woman before the Unspeakable and one of the Obliviators working for the Department who accompanied Mildred Selwyn had stepped between them and blocked her from view. Monkstanley was following them. The vacant look in the woman's eyes – characteristic of a recent Obliviation – had caught Hermione's attention. But it had been upon absentmindedly reciting the list that the realization of the witch's identity had hit her.

Selwyn was killed during the final battle, but his case had still gone to trial so the Ministry could collect compensation for his war crimes. Mildred Selwyn, as the last living member of the family and the heiress of all their estate, had been representing him despite being a very distant relative. Hermione remembered only vaguely having followed the case, but Mildred Selwyn's mortified and crumpled face while she listened to the sentence, sat in the iron chair in the middle of the Court Room, was engraved in her memory. The woman had been removed from the family tree long ago for marrying a Muggleborn and had absolutely nothing to do with the crimes listed to her and for which she was being dispossessed once again of her fortune.

The orange glare of the streetlamps was fading beyond the window, gradually replaced by the bluish gray of the late dawn that struggled to pierce the thick clouds. Hermione slid off her bar stool and crossed the living room to open the rest of the curtains. The half-light outside was barely enough to chase the darkness inside. Nathaniel's door clicked and the little boy appeared on the threshold, his checkered fleece pajamas wrinkled and half unbuttoned. He made a few steps toward her, rubbing his eyes sleepily, and stopped with his gaze focused on some point behind her. Hermione smoothed his tousled hair and deposited a small kiss on the top of his head. While Nathaniel turned away to go into the kitchen, she discretely pulled out her wand and flicked it at her bedroom door to lift the Locking Charms. She set about preparing breakfast, fixing a tray for Malfoy she left on the countertop, but when she and Nathaniel left a little less than two hours later, he still hadn't given any sign of life.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

Hermione lifted Nathaniel from the floor and seated him on her hip so he could look through the round windows in the double doors that led to the 'Unliftable degenerative curses ward'. The hushed atmosphere in the wide, sterile hallway of the fourth floor was disrupted by the pacing and the murmurs of witches and wizards in mismatched Muggle clothes come to visit their friends and relatives before lunch hour. Overwhelmed mediwitches in lime green robes scurried between the groups to show them the way to the different rooms and wards, while the exhausted-looking Healers sneaked discretely into their offices to avoid being stalked by the worried families of their patients. Saint Mungo's was cruelly lacking of staff despite the million Galleons the Ministry had injected into the funds of the hospital thanks to MACUSA's loan. The massive outmigration of the British Wizarding community after the war had been disastrous.

Hermione waited patiently for a mediwitch to notice them and let them into the ward while Nathaniel looked sternly through the windows, his small face unmoving. The ever-grim mediwitch with a tight bun of gray hair who was in charge of the ward hurried past them a couple of minutes later.

"Caldwell?" she grunted, skidding to a halt.

She waved her wand to unlock the doors without waiting for an answer and ushered Hermione into the cathedral-like room. When she shut the doors behind them, isolating them from the restless crowd of staff and visitors, the eerie silence inside the ward restored at once. There was no Healer behind the desk on their left and they were the only visitors. Even though the rain was still pouring over London when they had left the apartment, slanting beams of soft golden light were streaming through the enchanted windows set under the high ceiling of the ward.

As always, Hermione put Nathaniel back on his feet and let him go first up the aisle between the beds, following a few steps behind. Nothing had changed; the slender, dark-haired woman and her tall husband were as pale and motionless as ever, but Nathaniel examined their faces attentively, going from one bed to the other. Instead of climbing onto his chair as he usually did, he took the backpack he had brought with him off his shoulders and retrieved a neat stack of drawings out of it, proceeding to stick them to the wall with Spello-tape. Hermione, who was watching him silently, hoped the Healers wouldn't take them off. Soon, the Caldwells' bed heads were surrounded by colorful hippogriffs, dragons and what Nathaniel imagined Hogwarts to be like – castles with spiky towers nested between snowy mountains.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione looked up, repressing a shudder of surprise, and met the hard gaze of Healer Mnemosyna Pandey, a tall woman in her mid-fifties with olive skin and a slightly crooked nose. Despite the crow's feet around her dark, almond-shaped eyes and the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth, her slick hair gathered in a long ponytail was oil black. Her lime-green robes were trimmed with gold to differentiate her status from simple mediwitches. The one in charge of the ward stood behind her, slightly winded.

"May I have a word?" asked the Healer. "Gisela, would you please watch the boy?" she added without waiting and took a thick green folder from the mediwitch's hands.

She had a calm, modulated voice and was rolling her r's pleasantly. Hermione stood up and nodded reassuringly to Nathaniel while the mediwitch took her place, looking quite grateful to have an excuse to sit down. As she walked away with the Healer, Hermione cast a look over her shoulder; Nathaniel had climbed on his usual seat between his parents' beds and his thoughtful gaze was following them. He never spoke to the Healers and mediwitches tending to his parents, and Hermione had the sinking feeling that he understood the kind of news they brought the rare times they asked to speak to her in private.

Mnemosyna Pandey stopped at the end of the ward; the beds nearest the double doors were empty. Hermione searched the Healer's face, but the woman wasn't looking at her and was busy flipping through the flattened parchments inside the folder. She clasped it shut at last and rested her piercing gaze on Hermione.

"We received the results of the last Memory Degradation Expertise this morning," she announced bluntly.

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself unwittingly, something cold seeping through her body as she waited for the Healer to continue.

"They are not quite what we expected," pursued the woman gravely. "Our Counter-Curses are failing to slow down the progress of the curse. The memories we are extracting for expertise become more and more faded with every passing week. Their minds are literally eroding."

"But this was already the case months ago…" said Hermione quickly. "You said the memories could be restored! You said…"

She broke off, looking helplessly at Healer Pandey, who was shaking her head; her severe features softened slightly and fatigue permeated her face for a brief moment.

"The more time passes without our finding the appropriate Counter-Curse, the faster the curse is spreading. In Mrs. Caldwell's case… Well, it is already way too fast for us to restore the memories at the same pace they are getting destroyed. The curse is drilling into her mind, and you know what will happen when it reaches the core memories defining her personality. Complete amnesia, dementia…"

She trailed off and sighed, examining Hermione's face with a pitying look.

"Miss Granger," she said, closing her long, thin fingers around Hermione's shoulder. "I wish I had other news to bring you, but we've been aware of this situation for quite a long time already. I'm telling you about this now so you can do your job."

"My job?" repeated Hermione blankly.

The hollow feeling that had settled at the pit of her stomach had made her momentarily forget who she was, what she was doing there and even the reason for her doing it.

"It is time to inform the authorities of the situation so they can find a permanent solution for the boy."

They both gazed at the small figure sitting motionlessly at the other end of the ward. Everything was eerily silent now that they had stopped talking. Hermione felt like she might start screaming and rubbed her fingertips against her mouth, pressing the inside of her lips against her teeth until it hurt. Healer Pandey turned around to shuffle through the stacks of folders on the desk by the double doors. She hoisted five more of them in the crook of her arm and opened the doors, letting in the noise of the hustle and bustle outside the ward. The mediwitch rose to her feet to leave as well.

"Healer!" called Hermione, snapping out of her thoughts.

Mnemosyna Pandey paused on the threshold, looking at her over her shoulder.

"Can I ask you for something?"

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

"Why didn't you go out of the room? I left the door open."

Draco looked up from his plate; it was the first time Granger was addressing him directly that day. She was going back and forth across the kitchen as she cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink. She was resolutely keeping her gaze away from him and had spoken in a curt voice. Her shoulders twitched imperceptibly with every move, and there was something akin to fretfulness in her general demeanor.

"I was busy," he replied, focusing back on his last spoonfuls of green beans.

Granger did not react to the sarcasm.

 _He had been sitting on the windowsill when she and the kid had returned from St Mungo's shortly before lunch. He had heard her pace throughout the apartment as though looking for something and then she had thrown the door of the room open. He had looked at her over his shoulder, rubbing his forehead, numb after hours of resting against the cold window pane. Granger had stared at him with an unfathomable expression for a long moment, before leaving the room and slamming the door shut behind her._ At the time, he had taken the look on her face for displeasure – maybe even disappointment at still finding him there despite her leaving the door unlocked – but he now knew it wasn't quite that.

She was piling up the dirty plates with jerky movements, making the activity unnecessarily loud. Finishing his plate, Draco stood up and put it with his knife and fork into the ceramic tray that had contained the ravioli Granger had made for herself and the kid. He rounded the table to bring them to the sink and almost collided with Granger as she whirled around.

"Leave it," she huffed impatiently, taking the tray from his hands.

She put it on the worktop and glared at the pile for a moment as though it had somehow offended her. At last, she took out her wand and waved it with a sigh at the dishes, which jumped in the air and plunged into the sink that had magically filled with soapy water. Granger stood still, staring fixedly at the bubbling water. Something had changed ever since she and the kid had gone to St Mungo's. The boy had remained mute since their return, but instead of exhorting him to talk with overly cheerful remarks and questions or trying to distract him by reading and playing with him as she would usually do, Granger had seemed lost in deep thought through the whole day, her gaze unfocused and her smile strained whenever she spoke to the kid. This new apathy had something unpleasantly familiar about it and was especially unsettling when coming from Granger.

Draco crossed the kitchen and leaned against the counter, half turned to the living room where the kid sat on his heels next to the coffee table. He watched Granger busy herself with small paper triangles she put into a noisy contraption Muggles used to make coffee so awful it was barely drinkable. Soon, the bitter smell wafted from the machine and it sputtered the black liquid into Granger's mug. She turned around and paused, looking at him as though she had forgotten his presence.

"Coffee?" she asked with reticence, her desire to be left alone evident.

He shook his head no and went into the living-room while she sat down at the table, turning her cup between her hands pensively. Loose sheets of paper scattered all around and a bottle of Color-Change Ink standing open on the coffee table, the kid was busy creating colorful shapes with ink blots and didn't pay him any attention when he settled onto the sofa opposite him. From there, he could only see the top of Granger's head over the kitchen counter. The occasional clatter of her cup against the table and the scraping of the boy's quill were the only sounds in the quiet apartment. Draco leaned against the armrest and outstretched his legs along the sofa.

 _Why didn't he go out of the room?_

And what difference would it have made? Whether he stared out the bedroom window or out the living-room one didn't change anything. Whether he existed in the bedroom or in the living-room didn't change anything. Granger made an effort to vary his meals even when cooking something different for him caused her additional trouble. But the truth was he didn't even enjoy the process of eating. Whether it rained or snowed outside, whether he had spinach lasagna or green beans for dinner, whether he sat in complete darkness or Granger came in and switched on the artificial Muggle lights didn't change anything. Change is relative. He was stuck – _trapped_ – and everything else went barely noticed. Only two alterations truly affected his passive existing: the contrast between being awake and being asleep, the latter usually having an impact too brutal to be ignored, and the contrast between being alone or in someone's presence – Granger's, Lovegood's, or the boy's. Mostly Granger's.

He observed the kid out of the corner of the eye. The care with which the boy deposited drops of ink on the paper and watched them soak into it was almost fascinating. Draco glanced toward the kitchen; the top of Granger's head hadn't moved and he could hear the faint tinkling of her spoon against her cup as she stirred her coffee distractedly. Leaning over, he snatched an ink-stained square of paper from the coffee table. Across from him, the scratching of the quill ceased and the boy tilted his head slightly, his downcast eyes peering at the paper he had taken with wary curiosity as his fingers folded, smoothed, and shaped it mechanically. A few moments later, a small bird with outstretched, blotched wings sat in the middle of Draco's palm. His gaze fixed on the bird, Nathaniel shifted, the quill held in midair.

Draco was looking at the bird as well. He focused on it unseeingly, waiting to feel the indefinable yet familiar rush. It reminded him of the only time he had had his bones vanished and regrown. He was five when he had his first really bad fall off a broomstick. The bones in his right wrist and two of his fingers had been so nastily shattered they couldn't be mended as to ensure a full recovery of his hand. Reaching for his power was like trying to move a limb in the first hours after the Skele-Gro had taken effect. He remembered the sensation vividly; it had been too unpleasant to be ever forgotten. His hand hadn't felt wounded; it had stopped hurting and the joints were again fully functional. But for a few hours, his hand had felt foreign, disconnected from the rest of his body.

His power was still there, undiminished unlike him, but over the past nine months without his wand, it had been lurking in a part of him that felt hollow, too elusive for wandless magic. The paper wings smeared with watery green and blue trembled. The paper head perked up and stilled again. On the other side of the coffee table, the kid had straightened, his whole body tense with anticipation, and was staring transfixed at the bird. His face unreadable even though his eyes betrayed his effort, Draco looked up briefly and met Nathaniel's gaze. The little boy grinned shyly, gripping the edge of the table with both hands, not hiding his eagerness anymore. Draco's lips curled into something that could have been a scowl but was softened by the glint in his eyes when the wings of the paper bird fluttered, flapped with an almost inaudible rustle, and it took flight, crossing the distance between them in a sloppy arc. Nathaniel caught it with a silent gasp and beamed at it in awe.

The sound of splashing water made them both turn to the kitchen; Hermione had gotten up and was rinsing her cup. When Nathaniel glanced at him, holding the paper bird gingerly, Draco pressed a finger against his lips; he wasn't sure Granger would be so willing to lift the Locking Charms if she knew he could still perform wandless magic, unstable as it was. The boy nodded and quickly averted his gaze. The dimples at the corners of his mouth, however, deepened as he continued to smile, looking at the bird in his lap. He carefully slipped it in the front pocket of his dungarees when Granger walked into the living-room.

"Come on; time to go to bed," she said, smiling at the boy.

Draco sat silently while she waited for the kid to gather his drawings and shuffle into his bedroom. She stood lost in thought without seeming like following the boy, and the words escaped his mouth before he could stop them.

"Why did you do it? Why did you leave the door open?"

Granger leaned to put the cork back in the bottle of Color-Change Ink without looking at him.

"And where would you go, Malfoy?" she replied wearily.

He watched her walk into the bedroom and close the door behind her. The real question was for how long she had made her peace with his sticking around.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

Hermione toppled to the floor as the scream ripped through the silence. Her eyes snapping open and her heart hammering, she struggled to get to her feet, grasping around for her wand and panicking as her half-asleep brain failed to understand that she was still entangled in her blanket. Her fingers closed at last around the thin piece of wood that lay on the coffee table, and she stumbled blindly across the dark room, almost falling when she bumped into the corner of the sofa. The desperate urge to run to the rescue of the person who had screamed made her whirl around wildly, darting her wand in every direction as she tried to recognize her surroundings.

 _Ron… He needed her!_

The sound that had awakened her broke the silence again. It wasn't as loud as it had sounded inside her head while she was still in the depth of slumber. It was merely a muffled wail, like the weak howl of a wounded animal. Hermione stilled, exhaling slowly and closing her eyes, her head clearing. She turned to the door at the other end of the living-room and lowered her wand, rubbing her hand over her forehead; she was breathless as though she had run a mile.

" _Lumos_ ," she muttered.

The tip of her wand lit up, chasing the darkness. Hermione cast a glance over her shoulder; the door to Nathaniel's room was securely closed. A strangled whimper disrupted the quietness again and she hurried across the living-room, cursing under her breath. She could hear Malfoy stirring restlessly as she neared the bedroom. Lifting the Locking Charms, she threw the door open and leaped inside, shutting it as quickly behind her and swiftly casting a series of Silencing Charms so Nathaniel wouldn't wake up. She spun around, her wand held high and bathing in cold glow the bed and the mess of sheets twisted around the figure sprawled in the middle of it.

Malfoy's body was oddly crooked, his legs were squirming beneath the sheets imprisoning them, trying to kick the cloth away. He wasn't whimpering anymore, but she could hear his ragged, hissing breath as he arched from the bed as though he was physically straining to escape the grip of the visions playing inside his head. Hermione approached the bed cautiously, staying at a safe distance and ready to jump away and hex Malfoy if needed. She squinted at him in the half-light and her eyes widened in horror.

His face was painful to look at, his eyes screwed shut, his brows knitted together, and his features taut as he drew labored breaths through bared teeth. The veins on his exposed neck and on his temples were swollen. His upper body had gone rigid, his arms outstretched on either side with his fists and the back of his head digging into the mattress to lift himself off the bed, while his legs continued to kick and thrash. Hermione unwittingly took a step forward, hovering indecisively over his agitated form. The light of her wand didn't seem likely to wake him up.

"Malfoy…" she called with as much firmness as she could muster and not bothering to keep her voice low. "Malfoy, wake up!"

He emitted a chocking sound and his whole body went slack, collapsing onto the bed, but his eyes did not open. His clenched jaw loosened and Hermione heard his teeth clatter; she hoped he wouldn't bite his tongue.

"Malfoy!" she called again.

Her knees hit the edge of the mattress and she realized that she had closed the distance to the bed. Malfoy's left hand was an inch away from her, his knuckles white and his fingers clutching the sheet desperately. A movement of his leg pulled the blanket down, and she saw the dark patches of sweat soaking the front of his light gray t-shirt. Hermione considered him apprehensively, her wand held over his face. He had stopped stirring and straining, but his features were still twisted in agony. She reached out tentatively, her fingertips stopped two inches away from his shoulder, and she withdrew her hand.

She took a step back, running a hand through her hair. It wasn't her job to babysit him. If he wanted a peaceful sleep, he had to take his potions. She lowered her wand, plunging the bed back into shadows, turned away and marched to the door resolutely. Somewhere behind her, Malfoy hissed as though he had burnt himself. Hermione stilled, listening to the quiet, uneven sounds. Sighing, she let go of the doorknob and returned to the bedside. Malfoy's face had smoothened, his brows high on his forehead, and he now had an almost pleading expression. His breath was coming in shallow pants through his parted lips. Hermione put her wand on the bedside table and leaned over him.

"Come on, Malfoy, you have to wake up now," she said wearily.

She reached out again and prodded his shoulder with her fingertips. Malfoy pressed himself into the mattress, shrinking away from her touch. His breathing was becoming rapid, like dry sobbing. Hermione braced a knee on the edge of the bed and set her palm on the plane expanse under his collarbone. The fabric of his t-shirt was cool and damp.

"Draco… You have to wake up," she whispered soothingly, her fingers curling around his shoulder as she stirred him lightly. "Draco…"

She started and withdrew her hand when a violent shudder ran through his body. A hoarse gasp escaped his chest and Malfoy started stirring again, struggling more and more to catch his breath. His right hand released the sheet to fumble blindly through the air as though he was trying to catch an invisible Snitch. Hermione leaped off the bed to put distance between them but his hand brushed against her left wrist, searched through the air and found her again. His cold fingers closed around her forearm and squeezed it in a death grip. Hermione tried to wrench her arm free but to no avail.

"Malfoy!" she cried out, remembering his grip around her throat the first time she had tried to wake him like this.

She lunged for her wand on the bedside table but Malfoy's other hand caught her arm as well and he held her with such force that she winced in pain.

"Malfoy!"

But he didn't seem like attacking her. Suffocating, he clung onto her as though he expected her to physically pull him out of his nightmare. Against her better judgment, Hermione stopped fighting and leaned over him, bracing herself on her free arm to keep her balance.

"Come on, Draco," she called. "Draco, wake up!"

His eyelids flew open, his dilated pupils making his eyes look black before they glinted silver in the light of her wand. For a moment, he did not seem to remember who she was and what they were doing there and cast about wildly, his whole body taut.

"Everything is alright, Malfoy," said Hermione as calmly as she could. "You were having a nightmare."

There was no need to specify this. She could see from the crazed look on his face that the visions were still swirling in his head. He fell back on his pillow and pressed the knuckles of his right hand against his mouth as if to stop himself from gagging. His left hand was still clutching her wrist but he seemed completely unaware of it. Tired of bending over him, Hermione perched cautiously on the edge of the bed and watched him in silence while he lay on his back, his gaze unfocused and his lips white as he took shuddering gulps of air. His fingers were ice-cold against her skin.

"Window…" he choked out in a barely audible voice. "Open the window…"

"Okay, but you'll have to let go of me first," said Hermione.

Malfoy gave her a dazed look. She tugged her arm gently. He started, his gaze falling on his own hand wrapped around her wrist, and released her at once. His fingers had left white marks on her skin that she was sure would bruise over the next few hours. Hermione tried to refrain from rubbing her arm. She stood up and went to the window, pulling the curtains apart. The old wooden frame had imperceptibly swollen from the rain that had been pouring over the London over the past few weeks, and she had to battle with it for a while before it gave in and opened, letting in a gust of icy air and flooding the room with the murky glare of the streetlamps.

The bed creaked behind her. Malfoy had propped himself up but didn't seem to have enough strength to get out of bed and drag himself to the window. He remained sitting in the middle of it, his upper body swaying from side to side as though he was too weak to stay upright. Hermione stepped away from the gaping window and watched Malfoy's face, drained of all color. His damp clothes were sticking to his skin and he was shivering. He had tilted his head toward the window and his breath was hissing in his throat as he swallowed convulsively big gulps of air, his eyes closed and apparently completely oblivious to the cold and even to her presence.

Hermione crossed the room to her wardrobe and squatted down to search through the bottom drawers. She had no more spare clothes to give him; the ones she had bought him and her father's pajamas were all in the washing machine. She finally got her hands on an old, dark gray Oxford hoodie that was – and had always been – way too big for her. She retrieved it from the pile of other faded sweatshirts and walked over to the bed. Malfoy was still sitting in the same posture but turned his head slightly at her approaching, looking at her out of the corner of the eye.

"Here. You can put this on," said Hermione, handing him the hoodie.

Malfoy didn't move. He averted his gaze, staring unblinkingly out the window at the dark mass of the houses across the street. Hermione had the impression that he was avoiding looking at her. She saw his face become hard and bitter while he slowly regained his composure. She put the hoodie on the covers next to him and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Before I knew about Hogwarts, I wanted to go there. Oxford," she said, lowering herself onto the edge of the bed. "It's the most prestigious Muggle college of the country. Dad brought me this hoodie when I was nine. I loved borrowing his sweatshirts, and he said it was the biggest he could find. It fell past my knees and I had to roll up the sleeves several times."

She trailed off, her expression softening at the memory. _She would curl up into a ball inside of it with her knees drawn up under her chin and her arms around her legs, the hoodie feeling like a warm, loose cocoon around her body…_ There was a moment of silence and Hermione suddenly realized that she had no idea what had come upon her to talk about it out loud. She glanced at Malfoy; nothing indicated that he had even heard her, and yet, she had the acute feeling he had been listening. His hunched shoulders were still shivering but his breathing sounded less labored. With a sigh, Hermione stood up and rounded the bed to pick up her wand from the bedside table.

"It's in the bathroom," said Malfoy in a strangely flat, raspy voice.

"What?"

"The Sleeping Draught. It's in the bathroom."

He was looking fixedly at his hands in his lap.

"You want to take it?" asked Hermione, watching him attentively.

His eyes glinted briefly in the light of her wand as he glanced at her, but he didn't answer. A muscle twitched in his cheek. Hermione sighed and sat on the edge of the bed again.

"I'm not going to forcibly drug you, Malfoy," she said quietly.

His upper lip was curled into a bitter scowl.

"Why?" he gritted out, staring straight ahead.

Hermione frowned, watching his sharp profile, white in the light of her wand, silhouetting against the darkness in the room. The damp strands of hair at the back of his head stuck out at angles. Her gaze trailed down his bare arms covered in goosebumps; the bluish veins were swelling beneath his pale skin as he flexed his hands.

"Because you are not a prisoner," she answered at last. "Because you have a say."

A convulsive shudder shook his shoulders and Malfoy turned his face away toward the open window. Without a word, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pushed himself up heavily. Hermione watched him take a few unsteady steps to the window. The light at the tip of her wand flickered like one of a light bulb about to burn out; the adrenaline of her sudden awakening had worn off, and Hermione felt ready to doze off any minute and wondered in the back of her mind what time it was. She held back a yawn. Malfoy stopped with his back to her, his stiff figure cut out against the night outside.

"Are you going to be able to sleep?" she asked, standing up. "Do you want a Draught of P –?"

"No."

Hermione glared at the back of his head.

"As you wish," she huffed under her breath, heading for the door.

She quietly pulled it open and paused; behind her, despite the distant rumbling of lonely cars drifting through the window, she could hear the air wheeze faintly inside Malfoy's chest. She looked over her shoulder at his dark silhouette still standing at the window with his arms hanging at his sides. His hands were shaking. Hermione stared at him for a moment, feeling a growing urge to kick herself out of the room without further hesitation.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Close the window and put your shoes on," she sighed and left the room without waiting for an answer.

The shadows on the walls shifted as though recoiling from the light of her wand as she crossed the living-room shrouded in darkness. She stopped in front of the bookshelf behind the piano and fumbled through the second highest shelf, running her fingertips over the familiar bindings until she found the right one and retrieved a thin, pocket-sized book. The battered paperback was soft and pliant at the edges, the glossy layer having come off from repetitive use. Hermione slipped the small book into the pocket of her loose, fleece pajama bottoms and cast a glance behind her. She had to admit she was a little surprised to find that Malfoy had indeed followed her. It was impossible to make out the expression of his face hidden in the shadows, but he had made a few steps into the living room and stood waiting for her.

Hermione tiptoed to the window that gave to the fire escape ladder and opened it. She shivered as she was brutally reminded that she wore nothing but socks when an ice-cold gush of wind blew around her bare ankles as she swung her legs over the windowsill. Hermione pushed herself out and climbed a few steps to make Malfoy some space on the stairs landing. A short moment later, he was clambering clumsily through the window as well. Now that he was in the light of the streetlamps, she could see his mismatched outfit: the faux black leather lace-up shoes she had bought him, the ill-fitting, wrinkled, gray pajama bottoms that had once belonged to her father, and the gray Oxford hoodie, which was big even for him. There had been a time when she would have probably laughed at the sight of Draco Malfoy in such a strange attire; now she merely noticed the colorless strands of his damp hair sticking to his temples and thought that the hoodie was making the emaciation he was only beginning to recover from even more obvious.

Without a word, Hermione flicked her wand at the window to close it. She ascended the rattling ladder to the roof, Malfoy's progression a few steps behind her reverberating through the metal beneath her feet, and cautiously propped herself on the stone parapet. It was still slippery even though it had stopped raining before the nightfall. Hermione rolled over the parapet, landing in a crouched position on the narrow portion of flat roof on the other side. The air over the damp slate rooftop had the sharp rusty scent of a city after a rainy day. Hermione crept along the parapet until she entered the bubble of warm air she had magically created. She sat within the clearly delimited circle of dry brick and slate and took out her wand to clean and dry the soles of her socks while Malfoy climbed onto the roof and made his way toward her unsteadily.

He lowered himself heavily onto the roof next to her, his legs half-bent and his feet propped up on the parapet. He sounded completely winded from the climb. Hermione cast a Lighting Charm again and tucked her wand behind her ear, not afraid of the light being seen by the Muggles living in the houses across the street. The spells she had used to create this hideout were designed to keep anything within from prying eyes, and the light was confined within the enchanted space. She cast a sideways glance at Malfoy; he was slumped with his back against the slanting rooftop – his eyes half-closed, his arms at his sides and his fists clenched – and was swallowing big gulps of air as though he was struggling to fill his lungs. Hermione averted her gaze and pulled the small paperback book out of her pocket. Rubbing her eyes wearily, she opened it on her lap.

" _In 1926 I was enrolled as student airline pilot by the Latecoere Company…_ "

"Seriously, Granger?"

Malfoy's voice was raspy and panting but conveyed the sneering contempt nonetheless. She cast him a dirty look.

"Are you… really… going to read me… a story? Where are the milk and the coo –"

He broke off and turned his face away, his eyes shut. A muscle twitched in his cheek. Hermione sighed.

"Don't waste your breath. You're going to like it; it's about flying," she said and returned her attention to the book.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

" _Flying, in general, seemed to us easy. When the skies are filled with black vapors, when fog and sand and sea are confounded in a brew in which they become indistinguishable, when gleaming flashes wheel treacherously in these skyey swamps, the pilot purges himself of the phantoms at a single stroke…_ "

The sky overhead looked just like a swamp. The low clouds absorbed the murky glare of the city lights and swirled sluggishly, dissolved, and thickened into shapeless forms again without ever clearing an untainted space for the night sky.

"… _He brings sanity into his house as into a lonely cottage on a fearsome heath…_ "

Granger had been reading for long enough for his heartbeat to adjust to the pace of her calm, measured voice. It had pulled him out of the thick, reddish depths he had been drowning in for hours in his sleep, but now it was almost sedating. The words wove into his brain even though he had more and more difficulty to catch them, and somewhere along the line the coppery taste at the back of his throat and the sickness had subsided. He felt on the brink of drifting off… Granger turned another page. Or maybe several…

"… _the tails of tornadoes rising minute by minute gradually higher, rising as a wall is built… and when, an hour later, he slipped under the clouds, he came out into a fantastic kingdom. Great black waterspouts had reared themselves seemingly in the immobility of temple pillars. Swollen at their tops, they were supporting the squat and lowering arch of the tempest, but through the rifts in the arch there fell slabs of light and the full moon sent her radiant beams between the pillars down upon the frozen tiles of the sea… flying for four hours through these corridors of moonlight toward the exit from the temple_ …"

An exit…

"Granger…"

" _Low on the horizon a brilliant point was un-veiled on our port bow… That light twinkled for a space and then went out! We had been steering for a star… we continued to nibble at the golden bait… we knew ourselves to be lost in interplanetary space among a thousand inaccessible planets, we who sought only the one veritable planet, our own, that planet on which alone we should find our familiar countryside, the houses of our friends, our treasures_ …"

He must have dozed off again.

" _Each man must look to himself to teach him the meaning of life. It is not something discovered: it is something molded… We can still run free, call to our comrades, and marvel to hear once more, in response to our call, the pathetic chant of the human voice_ …"

She had been saying something about an exit…

"Granger…"

This time she heard him. She stopped reading and looked up from the book, the light of her wand tucked behind her ear making it impossible for him to distinguish her features. The suddenly restored silence snapped him out of the dreamlike state her voice had plunged him in. He was suddenly aware of the existence of other noises around them – the howling of the wind, Muggle engines rumbling in the distance – and the sound of his own voice, barely above a whisper, disgusted him as the words escaped his throat:

"Is there hope?"

Did she hear him? Did she understand what he was talking about? She must have noticed that her wand was blinding him and took it from behind her ear to clasp it between her knees, placing it like a lamp above the book. The shadows under her eyes deepened as she turned to him again, and he had the impression that for the first time she found what she had been looking for every time she had been discretely watching him over the past weeks.

"I'll make sure of it," she said quietly.

For a fleeting second, he thought that she wanted to add something, but she turned away and massaged the back of her neck, shifting to find a more comfortable position against the slanting roof.

"Go to sleep, Granger."

She snorted.

"I have to get up in less than an hour."

He frowned. What time was it? He had lost track… Granger held back a yawn and picked up the book again.

" _I saw nothing but the pool of nocturnal sky_ …"

Everything overhead was pitch black. The swamp of clouds had evaporated.

"… _face to face with that hatchery of stars… unaware that those depths were sky… no roof between those depths and me, no branches to screen them, no root to cling to… seized with vertigo_ …"

How fast he was falling back into that weightless void…

" _The earth, I felt, was supporting my back, sustaining me, lifting me up, transporting me through the immense void of night_ …"

The light at the tip of Granger's wand flickered. Her voice was low and almost broken. He should tear that book out of her hands and drag her back to the apartment… A dragonfly was knocking against a lamp, bringing a storm… Granger's voice was discontinuous; she was pausing, staring into space, before shaking herself and continuing…

" _I sat down face to face with one couple. Between the man and the woman a child… I saw his face. What an adorable face! A golden fruit had been born… this miracle of delight and grace… This is a musician's face. This is the child Mozart. This is a life full of beautiful promise. Little princes in legends are not different from this. Protected, sheltered, cultivated, what could not this child become? When by mutation a new rose is born in a garden, all the gardeners rejoice. They isolate the rose, tend it, foster it. But there is no gardener for men. This little Mozart will be shaped like the rest by the common stamping machine. This little Mozart will love shoddy music in the stench of night dives. This little Mozart is condemned_ …"

He half opened his eyes and listened. He was awake, fully awake after having actually slept – a dreamless slumber that had left his mind sharp and focused. The day was rising; the sky was gradually discoloring as though it were a canvas of dark watercolor splattered with water at the bottom. It was now spreading from the horizon and up above the London rooftops, the night fading rapidly. Granger's face was drained of color, but her hair wasn't a black mass anymore and the warm brown was becoming visible. Her checkered pajama bottoms were turning red. Her voice was rising unconsciously, responding to the change of light. She sounded as if she had swallowed a mouthful of sand but she went on reading stubbornly through the last page of the book.

" _Their fate causes these people no suffering. It is not an impulse to charity that has upset me like this. I am not weeping over an eternally open wound. Those who carry the wound do not feel it. It is the human race and not the individual that is wounded here, is outraged here. I do not believe in pity. What torments me tonight is the gardener's point of view. What torments me is not this poverty to which after all a man can accustom himself as easily as to sloth… What torments me is not the humps nor hollows nor the ugliness. It is the sight, a little bit in all these men, of Mozart murdered. Only the Spirit, if it breathe upon the clay, can create Man_."

* * *

 **A/N:** The book Hermione is reading is _Wind, Sand and Stars_ , a memoir written in 1939 by the French aviator/writer Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. In 2015, it entered the public domain in most countries of the world.

This chapter was mainly exploring the psychological side of the story. I've been struggling against a monstrous writer's block while writing it, and I really hope the result didn't come out boring and you enjoyed the read! Thank you for sticking around for this story!


	9. False notes

**Chapter 9**

 **False notes**

Hermione stirred and tilted her head away from the light piercing her closed eyelids, hiding her face against the cool leather back of the sofa. She was vaguely aware of a strange crackling sound getting louder and louder, but every inch of her body protested against waking up. Her limbs refused categorically to obey her even as her senses slowly reconnected to her foggy brain. Besides the light and the continuous crackling, a sharp smell suddenly hit her nostrils – the bitter, sulfuric tang of something burning… _A fire!_

The realization sent an electrifying wave through her body. Hermione bolted upright and sprang to her feet so fast that everything spun around her and blood thundered in her ears. She swayed, her surroundings appearing blurred to her dilated pupils. She winced against the brightness that hit her eyes – a plain wall of nothing but light that rose from floor to ceiling opposite her, crackling and billowing ominously. A tall shadow moved across the wall of light, advancing on her…

Her sleep-addled mind felt detached from her body, which reacted on sheer instinct, snatching her wand from under her pillow. She darted it in at the dark figure, her reflexes sluggish and her movements clumsy, and opened her mouth, ready to fire a hex, but her voice had abandoned her. The shadow lunged forward, closing the distance between them in one jump. Strong hands curled around her wrists and clasped her arms to her sides. He was gripping her with such force, blocking her from moving, that Hermione felt her fingertips grow numb. She tried to aim her wand at her attacker, but his fingers twisted her wrist and she was pulled into a hard chest.

"Easy, Granger," growled Malfoy's voice into her ear, his breath hot on the side of her neck. "Put that away now; the kid can see you!"

Still holding her by the elbows as though he was steadying her on her feet, he shifted sideways and she glimpsed Nathaniel – his hair ruffled and a sleeping mark across his cheek – peering at them from behind the kitchen counter. The wall of fire became the luminous square of the open kitchen, standing out sharply in the dark living room, and the menacing crackling receded to a quiet sputtering that sounded like drops of water evaporating from an electric hotplate. Malfoy's hands released her the moment she stopped straining against his grip and he drew away.

Suddenly, Hermione was acutely aware of the little boy watching her anxiously from the kitchen and felt a pang of horror at the thought of what could have happened. Dazed and embarrassed like a child caught red-handed, she glanced at Malfoy. He stood a few steps away from her, his white-blond hair tousled and clad in a wrinkled white cotton t-shirt and light gray pajama bottoms, his arms hanging limply at his sides as though he hadn't been restraining her from hurling hexes all around mere seconds before.

"That thing rang," he answered her confused gaze, nodding at something behind her. "Three times. I figured there might be a problem."

Hermione turned around and looked haggardly at the clock radio on the corner of the coffee table; the glowing dial displayed twenty-seven past six. She usually switched it off herself minutes before the fixed time, but this morning it had been ringing repeatedly without her hearing it. And that was nearly half an hour ago… Why didn't Malfoy wake her up immediately? Hermione ran a hand over her face, feeling a feverishly hot sheen of sweat covering her skin, and made an effort to school her features into a gentle smile as she faced Nathaniel.

"I'm sorry the clock woke you up, buddy," she said softly. "You can go back to bed if you want; Lulu will wake you up when it's time."

The child shook his head no, his eyes trained on the tips of his blue socks now that he was being addressed directly, and shuffled back into the kitchen. Hermione hesitated, her gaze flickering between the bathroom, the open kitchen and Malfoy, who was still looking at her silently.

"I'll watch the kid," he said flatly, turning away to follow Nathaniel into the kitchen.

"Right…" mumbled Hermione, taken aback.

She felt however a wave of relief when she closed the bathroom door behind her and leaned over the sink, clutching the cold rim with both hands. She examined her pale reflection in the stained glass of the mirror and was mortified to find herself looking frail and almost frightened, her eyes wider than usual. It was no wonder she didn't hear the alarm clock: it had been nearly three days since she last had a more or less decent amount of sleep. She hadn't immediately felt the consequences of her sleepless night on the roof, but toward the end of the day, she had been functioning on autopilot, and when her head had finally hit the pillow, slumber had closed in on her like a cement screed. She had never been especially worried about periodical sleep deprivation: it had become part of her life far back in her school years. But she couldn't allow it if it meant losing control over herself around Nathaniel…

Hermione turned on the shower and sat for a moment on the closed toilet lid, waiting for the chilly bathroom to fill with hot steam and letting the sound of cascading water lull her into peacefulness… She exited the bathroom some ten minutes later, wrapped in her favorite fleece bathrobe, stray damp curls escaping out of her pinned-up hair and sticking to the back of her neck, her skin smooth and flushed from the hot shower. After the thundering of the falling water, the silence in the rest of the apartment seemed almost unnatural. Hermione made her way to the kitchen and stopped at the counter, watching the scene with somewhat puzzled curiosity. Sitting at his favorite place at the table, Nathaniel was eating yoghurt, his gaze following Malfoy as the latter moved around the kitchen.

"Here?" asked Malfoy, looking questioningly at the child over his shoulder and reaching for the handle of a wall-mounted cupboard above the kitchen worktop.

Nathaniel put another spoonful of yogurt into his mouth and shook his head, pointing to the next cupboard on the left. Opening it, Malfoy took out the jar of cereals Nathaniel always ate in the morning and put it on the table for the little boy.

"Coffee?" he asked, noticing Hermione.

She nodded and rounded the table to set about preparing it, but Malfoy took a mug from the worktop behind him and thrust it into her hands. Hermione stared dumbly at the cup full of coffee, hot against her palms, then her gaze drifted to the switched-off coffeemaker and to the pans on the stovetop: the inside of one of them was blackened with burnt milk, which was probably the source of the smell that had awakened her, and the other was still half full with a dark liquid that exhaled a mouth-watering aroma. A can of ground coffee she had forgotten she had and that Malfoy had probably dug out from the back of a shelf stood on the worktop next to the stove. Ignoring her bewildered expression, Malfoy turned his back to her and poured himself a mug of coffee, copiously splashing the stovetop in the process.

"No milk, but you shouldn't need it. I believe it's better than the cat's piss you usually have," he drawled, taking a seat at the far end of the table.

Hermione shot him a warning glare but couldn't suppress a smile when Nathaniel giggled. She leaned against the worktop, hugging her bathrobe to her and her gaze wandering between the little boy and Malfoy, who was sipping his coffee, his face as shut as ever. It felt surreal. She brought the drink to her lips almost warily; it tasted indeed a lot better than the insipid filter coffee she was used to. In fact, it was heavenly. The scent alone went straight to her brain and cleared her thoughts. Hermione took a few big gulps, almost scalding the back of her throat.

"Thank you…" she said with genuine gratefulness.

Malfoy's steely gray eyes briefly met hers.

"You have mail," he said with indifference, motioning to the kitchen counter.

Hermione cast an only mildly interested glance at the newspaper on the countertop and froze. There was an envelope lying atop the Tuesday edition of the _Prophet_. An envelope with nothing but her name on it but it didn't matter; she recognized the handwriting at once. She put down her cup and walked over to the counter to lift the envelope between her fingers almost gingerly. It was a letter – a real letter, not a rolled up scrap of paper! Hermione exhaled slowly; her thoughts were already scattering, her mind racing hopefully about the contents of the envelope. She opened it and stared at the scribbled words. There were merely a few lines but it was still the longest piece of writing she had received from him over the past eight months.

 _Hermione,_

Not _'Dear Hermione'._ Just _'Hermione'._

 _All is well. I'm sorry I did not answer some of your previous letters._

That was an understatement. ' _Nearly all of your previous letters_ ' would have been closer to the truth.

 _It's easy to forget about responsibilities here._

And where was that exactly…?

 _I can tell from your last one that it's not your case. I don't know what you are looking for, but you won't find anything in that file you don't already know, except maybe for minor details. Please take this piece of friendly advice: stop. I've known you for long enough to see what you are doing. You are looking for a logical explanation. But there isn't any, Hermione. I know you must feel like it's a betrayal, but you need to move on. And I know you know it, because I know you are the only one who understands why I'm not here to tell you all this in person._

But she didn't… She didn't understand anything. The paper felt icy between her fingers but her cheeks were hot with the blood that had rushed to her face. She felt like a little girl being scolded.

 _I've seen the Sunday Prophet. I'm glad things are going back to normal. I'm sending Ginny all my friendship. Please tell her there is no one who deserves to be on the team more than her._

 _Start living your life, Hermione. Explanations won't change what's in the past. – Love, Harry_

"Granger?"

Hermione suddenly realized she was shaking, and a moment later, she realized it was with rage. She pushed back the hair that had escaped her bun and was falling like a curtain on either side of her face and turned back to the rest of the kitchen. Nathaniel was stirring his yoghurt mixed with cornflakes distractedly, peering at her out of the corner of his eye. Malfoy had paused with his mug held halfway to his mouth and was looking at her. It couldn't be concern, rather something akin to annoyance… She probably looked like she was about to cry. She wasn't.

"Everything is fine," she said, answering to no one in particular.

The cheerfulness in her voice scorched her tongue. She leaned over and mussed Nathaniel's hair before going back to the worktop and picking up her unfinished cup of coffee. When she turned around, Malfoy was still staring at her, a small crease between his pale eyebrows. Just as she brought the mug to her lips, the wards went off – a nearly inaudible ringing vibrating in the air. Hermione clenched her fist, crumpling the letter.

 _I'm sending Ginny all my friendship. Please tell her there is no one who deserves to be on the team more than her…_

Oh, she was certainly not going to insult her like this. It was nothing. That letter was a piece of nothing. Hermione quickly slipped it into the pocket of her bathrobe before Luna materialized in the middle of the living room with a loud _pop_.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

"What are you doing here, Miss Granger?" asked a cold voice right behind her.

Hermione jumped and bit hard on her lower lip to stifle the startled gasp that tore itself out of her chest. Her heart hammering, she spun around to face the man the voice belonged to; Monkstanley was towering over her, watching her with the usual expression of displeasure etched on his face as though she were a malicious intruder. A man she recognized to be one of the Department's Curse-Breakers from the dragon hide plastron he was wearing on the front of his black robes was standing a few steps behind Monkstanley, his hands clasped behind his back in an almost military posture. She had been leaning over her desk, engrossed in deciphering an antique manuscript written in Runic, and didn't see them enter the Archives Chamber and approach behind her. The magic at work inside the Chamber had completely suppressed the sound of their footsteps and the swishing of their robes. Hermione had to refrain from recoiling before Monkstanley's cold, inquisitive gaze and collected herself quickly, ignoring her heart that was still pounding forcefully against her ribs.

"I'm working on a translation, sir," she answered coolly, stepping to the side to let him see the thick, mold-eaten volume and the Futhorc Dictionary the size of her upper body she had been poring over.

They lay open on her desk under a complex contraption that consisted of dozens of extendable binocular magnifiers that looked like a jumble of metallic limbs. Still shaken by Monkstanley's sudden appearance, Hermione realized belatedly that she had dropped the magnifying lens she was using before being interrupted; the inch thick glass fixed to a heavy brass handle had fallen to the black marble floor without making the faintest noise. Hermione hastened to pick it up and straightened, holding Monkstanley's hard gaze. Beyond his customary dislike of her, she sensed him to be particularly on edge that day.

"It's your regulatory lunch hour," he said drily, casting a suspicious look at the scroll of scribbled notes hanging to the floor from the edge of her desk.

"I'm not hungry," replied Hermione, starting to feel annoyed with the way he examined her work, his small, dark eyes squinting behind his iron spectacles.

"Hungry or not, you will have to leave for an hour," snapped Monkstanley, moving past her to the section of manuscripts that had already been checked. "The Curse-Breakers have to continue their work. Is that all?" he added with discontent, pointing to the trestle tables against the far wall of the Chamber.

Hermione, who had been peeling off her dragon hide gloves, tossed them on her desk and glared at him. The antique book splayed before her had been engaging all her attention for a week now, and no new addition was made to the reviewed section.

"Ancient Runes take a lot of time to translate," she said stiffly.

The symbols and logograms lined one after the other without gaps on the faded, crumbling pages. Needless to say there wasn't any table of contents, and she sometimes had to translate several pages in a row to make sure she didn't miss anything related to the subject of her research. Time and humidity had in places so badly corroded the parchment that the runes were barely distinguishable, and she often had to go back and start the translation all over when she mistook a symbol for another.

"I need a clearance to cast a Crypticus Charm on this book," she continued, retrieving a scroll of parchment from under her notes and crossing the Chamber to hand it to Monkstanley. "I already filled in the request form. The book is marked as ' _Curse-free_ ' on the _Index_ , so the charm shouldn't cause any interference with a preexisting enchantment."

Hermione watched the wizard read thoroughly through the clearance request.

"It would save a lot of time if I could just spot key sequences of runes," she insisted without attempting to hide her exasperation anymore.

At last, Monkstanley gave her a dismissive nod and pulled a Self-Inking quill out of a pocket of his black robes to sign the form. Taking her coat and her bag from her chair, Hermione hurried to leave the Chamber and let out a sigh of relief once she was in the circular Antechamber and out of his field of vision. After submitting to the mandatory search at the exit of Department, she strode briskly down the long, echoing corridor that led to the lifts. She waited for one of them on the empty landing, feeling more annoyed than she ought to at being asked to take her lunch break, but she had to admit it was rather Monkstanley's contempt that irked her. A lift finally descended from the upper levels with a metallic rattle, and Hermione hurried into the cabin, pulling on her coat and her scarf distractedly. It was only when the golden grilles slid shut behind her back that she realized she wasn't alone in the cabin and repressed a shudder of surprise.

A woman was standing in the far corner with her forehead pressed against the wall and a long mane of dark curls streaked with grey falling before her face. She was wearing an ample, black cloak that hid her entire body, but Hermione could see her long, elegant hands clutch the fabric with such force that the knuckles had gone white. With a small shock, she recognized her.

"Mrs. Tonks?" she called, taking a tentative step toward the woman. "Mrs. Tonks?" she repeated when Andromeda apparently didn't hear her.

Andromeda's shoulders trembled and she raised her head, remaining oddly slumped against the wall of the cabin. A few loose curls were falling across her face but she made no gesture to brush them away. Hermione looked into her face, noticing with concern the faraway look in her eyes.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, reaching to gently touch Andromeda's elbow.

The woman blinked; it was apparently taking her an effort to focus her gaze on Hermione. She opened her mouth and looked confused as though she had forgotten what she was going to say.

"This is the Department of Mysteries," said Hermione with growing apprehension. "Did you come to see someone?"

Andromeda's lips moved, soundlessly forming a word, and Hermione drew closer.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Tonks…"

"Cissy…"

Hermione stilled.

"I came to see Cissy…" whispered Andromeda again, gazing past her as though she was looking for someone in the dim corridor that stretched on the other side of the golden grilles of the lift.

"Mrs. Tonks…" started Hermione, unwittingly casting a glance over her shoulder even though she knew there was no one there.

Andromeda suddenly clung onto her shoulders.

"She is not alright!" she stammered quickly. "She is not alright…"

Hermione stared at her, horrified.

"Okay…" she said at last. "Okay. I'm going to take you there, Mrs. Tonks."

Watching Andromeda out of the corner of the eye, she slammed her hand against the button of the first floor. She wasn't even sure Andromeda had heard her, because she retreated back into the farthest corner, her thick hair shielding her face like a curtain. As the lift paused on the upper floors to take more passengers, Hermione moved to stand in front of Andromeda, hiding her from view and impatiently counting the seconds during each stop. When the lift finally screeched to a halt on ' _Level One: Office of the Chief Warlock and Headquarters of the Ruling Committee'_ , Hermione firmly took Andromeda's arm and elbowed their way out of the crowded cabin.

Andromeda matched her pace obediently as they hurried up the luxurious carpeted hallway. Hermione kept her head down, practically sprinting when they passed open office doors and dragging Andromeda behind her. She had the sinking feeling it was best members of the Committee did not see them. When they reached the door of Shacklebolt's office, she pushed Andromeda against the wall and knocked once before opening the door just a crack and popping her head inside. His hands clasped behind his back, Kingsley was standing at one of the enchanted windows behind his desk, absorbed in deep thought. He turned around at the sound of the door opening, and his eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Hermione?"

Without answering, Hermione cast a look around the wide office to make sure he was alone, before fully opening the door to usher a compliant Andromeda inside. She swiftly shut the door behind them and cast a Locking Charm. Kingsley frowned, rounding his desk and making a few steps toward Andromeda, who stood still in the middle of the room with an absent-looking expression. After a quick glance at Hermione, who was watching him somberly, Kingsley stopped before Andromeda and cupped her face in his hands, tilting it up toward the light streaming through the windows and stretching the skin over her cheekbones with his thumbs to examine her eyes.

"She's been obliviated," he stated, turning to Hermione.

She nodded and walked over to stand next to him, looking into Andromeda's blank face.

"I found her in a lift at the Department of Mysteries," she answered, frowning. "She seemed… lost."

"The one who did this has been quite heavy-handed, but the aftereffects should wear off in a couple of hours," said Kingsley.

"She was looking for her sister," said Hermione quietly. "Narcissa…"

The mention of her sister's name snapped Andromeda out of her daze; she straightened, her gaze coming briefly into focus. Kingsley took her by the arm and led her to his desk.

"Did anyone see you come to my office?" he asked Hermione sharply once Andromeda was sat in an armchair.

"I can't be sure," said the young woman. "Kingsley, what's going on? It's not the first time this is happening… Monkstanley is working with Obliviators. I saw them leading Mildred Selwyn out of the Department last week."

She looked at him apprehensively but he didn't meet her gaze and sat across from Andromeda.

"We'll have to wait until Fawley is gone for lunch," he said, watching Andromeda thoughtfully.

Hermione opened her mouth but he cut her off.

"We can't talk about this here, Hermione," he said firmly. "Please take a seat and make yourself comfortable."

He waved his wand and a porcelain cup sprang out of a small cupboard, filling itself from the copper coffee pot that stood on a spindly table by the desk before flying into Hermione's hand. Looking conflicted, she lowered herself onto the edge of an armchair in a corner of the office and turned the cup between her fingers; she was already way too nervous to add more caffeine into her system. Someone came knocking on the door, but Kingsley gestured her to stay silent. After what felt like an eternity – even though the cup was still warm in her hands – Hermione started at the clear tinkling of an invisible bell that chimed in the office.

"He is gone," said Kingsley simply, putting aside the stack of parchments he had been skimming through and standing up. "We have to be quick now."

"Where are we going?" asked Hermione, jumping to her feet as Kingsley crossed the office to take his night blue winter cloak from a coat rack by the door.

He did not answer. She watched with mingled apprehension and curiosity as he returned to Andromeda and pulled her gently yet firmly to her feet. He flicked his wand at the door to cancel her Locking Charm and prudently glanced up and down the hallway to see if the way was clear before exiting with Andromeda. Hermione felt a dull sense of foreboding settle in her stomach while Shacklebolt executed a series of complex wand movements to seal his office. To her surprise, instead of turning to the lifts, he steered Andromeda across the hallway and to a black door with a golden plate that read ' _Staff only_ '. Hermione followed them; all her instincts were buzzing without her being able to put her finger on the cause.

The black door closed behind them noiselessly, isolating them on the empty landing of a vast, wrought-iron staircase. She had never been there. Hermione craned her neck and then looked over the golden handrail; in the undulating glow of the torches, she could see a flight of stairs going up – probably to the Atrium – and below them, hundreds of steps zigzagging between the floors and sinking into the depths of the Ministry and out of view like a giant pit. No sound of footsteps echoed from the lower levels: they were alone on the staircase.

Hermione caught a movement in the periphery of her vision. She turned just in time to see Kingsley discretely flick his wand at his side. A scream tore itself from her throat as she watched like in slow motion Andromeda sway and tumble over the edge of the top step, falling headfirst down the stairs. Shacklebolt swished his wand again, and Andromeda landed almost gracefully at the bottom of the steps. Without pausing to comprehend what had happened, Hermione whirled on the spot, apparating to Andromeda's side a floor below. The woman lay facedown, her robes spread out around her body. Gasping for air, Hermione crouched next to her and checked her pulse, but Andromeda was merely unconscious. Hermione spun around, whipping out her wand and pointing it at Shacklebolt, who was still standing at the top of the stairs, his face stern. He raised his own wand, ready to deflect her attack.

"Why did you do this?" shrieked Hermione, deciding against her better judgment to ask questions first.

"Because she needs to remember falling down the stairs," answered Kingsley calmly.

"Why?!" shouted Hermione.

"Because we need to take her to Saint Mungo's," said Kingsley, descending the steps without paying any attention to the wand aimed at his chest.

But Hermione refused to step aside when he tried to approach Andromeda.

"Hermione," said Kingsley sternly, raising his hands in a sign of peace before her defiant stance, "I have no intention to hurt her. You need to trust me and I will explain everything."

"Now!" hissed Hermione.

But Shacklebolt shook his head.

"This is not the place or the time," he said with a note of impatience in his voice. "Let me rennervate her and help me take her to Saint Mungo's."

Only the sight of Andromeda's crumbled form convinced her to postpone her interrogations. The woman's eyelids fluttered open as Kingsley passed his wand over her face, and together they helped her to her feet. Hermione thought she might get a cramp in her jaw from clenching her teeth as she tried to hold back all the questions and invectives that threatened to burst out. As they climbed the steps and exited into the Atrium, wending their way through the crowd, Andromeda seemed to regain some of her liveliness; she was looking around restlessly and asking them feebly but repeatedly what was happening while they steered her to the fireplaces across the Atrium. Kingsley was resolutely keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, walking with long strides even as Andromeda struggled to follow and stumbled on the hem of her cloak. He seemed completely oblivious to Hermione's furious stare. Only when the three of them emerged out of an immaculate hearth in Saint Mungo's tiled entrance hall did he turn to her.

"You need to leave now, Hermione," he said in a hushed voice, gently looping Andromeda's arm through his. "The Committee mustn't get wind of your being here today with me and Mrs. Tonks."

" _I_ _am not_ going anywhere!" protested Hermione in a loud whisper. "I have every right to be here!"

Kingsley put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed, looking her intently in the eye.

"I found Mrs. Tonks faint and disoriented on the stairs when leaving for lunch," he said slowly and purposefully. "She is an old friend, so I decided to take her to Saint Mungo's myself. She was _descending from the Atrium,_ and I presume she wanted to pay me a visit. _You_ can't be seen here. You need to get back to work."

Hermione watched him with wide eyes. Kingsley leaned closer, and his deep, rich voice was barely audible over the surrounding hubbub when he spoke again:

"Last week, Mildred Selwyn fell in her kitchen and hit her head on the edge of the dining table. She was brought to Saint Mungo's and had to be checked for head injury as she reported, among other things, short-term memory lapses. And it happens that the Healer who examined her is a friend of mine…"

Kingsley straightened and released her, turning on his heel to walk briskly to the reception counter with Andromeda, their cloaks billowing around their ankles. Hermione stood frozen for a moment, her body the complete opposite of her mind, which was racing so fast she couldn't disentangle and put words to her own thoughts.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

Granger's head bobbed in and out of view over the countertop. After dinner and once Lovegood had left, Granger had settled at the kitchen table and surrounded herself with several stacks of dreadfully dull-looking books she had fished out of her seemingly bottomless bag. Her furrowed brow and anxious gaze, however, kept flashing intermittently over the kitchen counter as she watched the kid, who sat cross-legged on the carpet near the coffee table as per usual. It was impossible he didn't sense her worried gaze boring into the back of his head, and Draco wondered how the boy could remain so unmoved by this constant surveillance; he was clutching half a dozen color pencils at once and was busy covering a sheet of paper with big, multicolored whirlwinds.

Ever since Lovegood had brought him back shortly before Granger's return from the Ministry, he hadn't uttered a single word nor met anybody's gaze. _'It's a bad day… Doctor Bell came to see him this afternoon and talked to him for an hour.'_ He had overheard Lovegood quickly whispering these words to Granger while the kid was gone to wash his hands before dinner. Granger's lips had tightened into such a thin line that he had doubted she would ever be able to unclench her teeth again. It was short-lived, and she had been chattering through the whole dinner, attempting to cheer the kid up. Draco had thoroughly ignored the three of them, before retreating to his favorite spot in the living room.

He rested his head against the cushioned back of the armchair, reveling in the delicious feeling of the mushroom quiche settling in his stomach. He couldn't help this diffuse and ridiculous sense of amazement at the mere fact of having food in his system and wondered when it would cease: certainly not as long as its opposite – a state of starvation so advanced that his insides had felt like shriveling on themselves – would remain vivid in his memory. There was the sound of pages being turned coming from the kitchen. It had been at least ten minutes she hadn't raised her head from whatever tedious reading she was doing, and he had nothing to train his gaze on. He stared at the plain white ceiling, trying to focus on nothing but the scraping of the kid's pencils against the paper.

Something had shifted. Not in the world around him but within. His brain kept reaching for something, some kind of novelty, as though the loop of void existence he had satisfied himself with until now wasn't enough anymore. He had had another good night's sleep. Not thick, sticky darkness that closed in on him and left him suffocating upon awakening, not dreadful visions in which he couldn't distinguish actual memories from nightmarish products of his wavering sanity, but pointless, hazy images that left his mind rested and clearer than it had ever been over the past nine months: a starry sky above a canopy of snowy clouds, a sea of sand, the dunes merging with an ocean of tumultuous waves, and always, the sensation of flying… They were the extension of the words he kept reminiscing vaguely, without even being aware of it, when he was awake. They played on repeat inside his head like background noise, jumbled phrases of that book read in Granger's voice. He did like it.

Something tugged on his sleeve.

Draco lowered his gaze to Nathaniel, who had silently approached him and stood next to the armchair, looking up into his face with a stern expression.

"Play for me."

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the top of Granger's head pop up from behind the kitchen counter again.

"No."

"Play for me."

He glared at the kid, hoping to deter him with direct eye contact, but the midget held his gaze stubbornly. Draco turned away.

"Come on, Nat'," called Granger, rising from her chair. "I'll play for you."

But the kid did not budge. Draco scowled with annoyance as the small, quiet voice sounded close to his ear when the child demanded once more:

"Play for me."

"I don't play."

He glanced sideways at the little boy as he shuffled away and resumed his staring at the ceiling, but the kid was back a moment later. Draco let out an aggravated grunt, ignoring him purposefully. He couldn't refrain from looking down when he felt something being slipped onto his lap.

"Please."

Draco's gaze shifted between the red dragon and Nathaniel, who had taken a step back after depositing his drawing and stood watching him with expectant seriousness. Draco plucked the picture from his lap and leaned over to toss it on the coffee table. His body was sore after an hour of sitting motionless; he could as well stretch his legs. Deliberately avoiding looking at Granger, he stood up and slowly headed for the piano, the kid hot on his heels. The lid was open, a stack of yellowed music sheets spread out above the ivory keys – Chopin, Beethoven, Debussy, Chopin again… He didn't need them. He splayed his fingers over the keyboard, moving them in the air at first as he recollected the first movements.

The result after the first few measures was unequivocal: _bloody awful_. And it wasn't because of his not remembering the score, or being rusty, or even because of the kid breathing down his neck. He hit the right keys at the right time, but somehow what came out didn't sound like music; _it was chopped, and mechanical, and…_ The melody picked up like a flock of birds taking flight. He stared dumbly at Granger's hands that had joined his on the keyboard. He didn't notice her walking over and drawing a chair next to his piano tool. The kid had come to stand next to her, his temple pressed against the side of the piano as he watched them play. Her hands were dancing effortlessly, jumping from an octave to the other and occasionally vaulting over his when she had to reach for his side of the keyboard.

He refused to look at the rest of her. The sight of her fingers flying over the keys and the light scent emanating from her – coffee mingled with something sweet and warm, like cinnamon, and a faint whiff of jasmine he had already noticed on the clothes she gave him and on the bed sheets – were already far enough. The hairs on his left forearm and on his neck were rising at this nondescript sense of awareness of her presence at his side.

The silence rang in his ears. He had no idea at what point he had stopped playing and had turned to stare at her. He could see darker flecks – coffee brown – in her muddy irises. He wasn't sure of the look on his face but her expression was positively alarmed. She opened her mouth as to say something but he didn't let her. He stood up and strode across the living room, entering her bedroom and kicking the door shut behind him.

The mattress springs squeaked as he sat on the edge of the bed. The darkness seemed complete to his unadjusted pupils. He felt dirty, dirty up to the farthest corners of his being. It hadn't been the kind of uneasy awareness that came with the invasion of personal space, but rather the realization of the abyss between them – between him and the rest of the world – that had hit him like a train wreck. Music resounded again from the living room, slightly muffled by the closed door. The flow of notes coaxed by her fingers was like the water of a cascade escaping a gangue of ice: fluid, free, untainted, unbroken…

Unlike his.

Soulless. The word was soulless.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the heels of her hands against them until bright patches of color popped in the blackness behind her eyelids. She let herself go against the pillow and blinked several times to chase the dots of color swimming before her eyes. She tried to focus her weary gaze on the pages of the book she had been skimming through but her brain wasn't cooperating anymore; all the words were jumbled inside her head, and the heavy treatise on ' _Potent degenerative curses: how to heal the mind?_ ' was turning into meaningless gibberish.

Hermione glanced at the clock radio on the coffee table next to her: almost midnight. She rubbed her eyes tiredly and resolved to close the thick book on her lap, pushing it to the other end of the sofa with her foot. Leaning over, she picked up the comforter that had slid to the floor from her impatient shifting while reading. She stood up and silently crossed the room to flick the switch on the wall next to Nathaniel's door. Darkness fell and then recoiled as her pupils adjusted to it and caught the faint light filtering through the crack under the little boy's door. He had left his nightlight on.

Hermione went to stand at the window behind the sofa and gazed glumly into the night outside. She could sense it even as Nathaniel was asleep: the fragile equilibrium it had taken them months to reach was already starting to crumble after Doctor Bell's visit. Hermione looked over her shoulder; in the darkness, the book on the sofa and the ones piling up on the coffee table were merely black shapes and certainly didn't look like anything that could contain a miracle. She didn't fool herself into thinking she could find a cure in a few books borrowed from St Mungo's public library when experimented Healers who had more resources at their disposal had failed. But she couldn't bring herself to sit and wait while Doctor Bell was planning a ' _permanent solution_ ' for Nathaniel. Research… That she could do. It was what she had always done.

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, shivering from the cold seeping in through the icy window pane. Her eyes followed a car crawling up the deserted street below like a giant beetle, the light of the lampposts glinting on its polished black roof. The faded orange glare of the city was sucked in by the pitch blackness of the sky. The low canopy of clouds that had become an ever-present part of the scenery over the past months had dissolved, offering the rooftops to the abyss of the night overhead – a weightless void in constant expansion, pushing their world to its outskirts without them being aware of it. Hermione drew in a deep breath. Suddenly the ceiling was too low and the walls too close.

She tiptoed across the room and rounded the kitchen counter. A flood of bright artificial light pierced the darkness, pouring out of the fridge as she opened it and squatted down to take as quietly as she could two bottles of Butterbeer from the bottom shelf. She blindly made her way to the entrance corridor and slipped her feet into a pair of flat shoes before returning to the living room. Her steps became more hesitant as she neared her bedroom door. No light was coming from inside the room. Hermione stopped a step away from the door, her head tilted to the side as she listened for some sign of Malfoy being awake.

She was about to turn on her heels when the door was thrown open and Malfoy's figure appeared in the doorway, his chest mere inches away from her face. Hermione jumped back, almost dropping the bottles, slippery with condensation. Standing on the threshold with his hand still holding the door, Malfoy looked down at her. In the half-light, his ghostly pale face was all deep shadows and sharp edges.

"Thought I heard you lurking around the door," he said impassibly. "What do you want, Granger?"

Hermione glared at him, irritated at being reduced to ' _lurk around_ ' her own door, and silently raised the two bottles of Butterbeer. Malfoy's unreadable gaze traveled between the bottles and her face, and he spun around, marching back inside the bedroom. Hermione stared into the darkness after him with uncertainty, but next moment, Malfoy reappeared in the doorframe, now wearing her oversized Oxford hoodie over his pajama t-shirt. He snatched one of the bottles from her hands before she could react and brushed past her, heading without a word for the window on the other side of the living room.

He was the first to reach the roof, and as she climbed the ladder in his wake, Hermione raked her mind for the exact moment the boundaries she had initially set had shattered. When she stepped into the enchanted area, Malfoy was already sitting between the parapet and the slanting rooftop, his arms around the knees of his half-bent legs and starting on his Butterbeer. Hermione lowered herself onto the roof next to him, keeping between them the usual respectable distance they had tacitly agreed upon, and uncorked her own bottle. Malfoy did not seem to pay any attention to her presence, and she was lost in her own thoughts when his voice pulled her out of her reverie.

"So tell me, Granger, why did you put Silencing Charms around your drinking spot?" he asked nonchalantly.

He was gazing over the stone parapet, turning his bottle of Butterbeer between his long fingers. Hermione looked away and took a sip to gain some time; he must have noticed that some of the noises coming from outside the enchanted circle were slightly distorted.

"Sometimes, everything is just too much… too heavy…" she said quietly and trailed off, blood creeping up her cheeks as she sensed Malfoy's eyes on her.

She sighed and raised her head, meeting his gaze.

"Don't you ever feel like hitting something or… or _screaming_?"

She felt unwarranted embarrassment as she spoke the words, and even more so when Malfoy quirked an eyebrow.

"Don't expect me to make a fool of myself with you goggling at me," she grumbled, shooting him a deterring look.

"Believe me, Granger; I would rather pay not to have you splitting my ears!" snorted Malfoy with a hint of his former haughtiness in his voice.

It was her turn to raise a mocking eyebrow.

"Oh, you have savings now?" she said lightly.

She smirked as Malfoy's eyes flashed dangerously. He outstretched his legs, propping his feet on the parapet, and let himself go against the slanting roof.

"After all, you shrieking about Potter being an ungrateful bastard might be entertaining," he drawled, his hands around the bottle of Butterbeer resting on his stomach.

Hermione felt her smile slide off her face as she stared at Malfoy's profile; he took a big gulp of Butterbeer and glanced at her. She quickly turned away, gazing unseeingly at the city lights that suddenly became blurred, luminous halos.

"The letter… It was from Potter, wasn't it?"

After a long moment, Hermione felt herself giving a short nod.

"He ran away," stated Malfoy.

She remained silent. There was really no other word for it. Malfoy did not say anything else and resumed his uninterested staring at the flickering city lights. She could ignore his remark but the words were burning inside her chest to be spoken. Hermione put down her almost empty bottle of Butterbeer and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her chin between her knees.

"He isn't acting like nothing happened… He is acting like it doesn't matter anymore. Like he can disappear and no one would notice."

She was slightly surprised to hear Malfoy answer her.

"Apart from the fact that Potter must be completely off his rocker to think _he_ can manage that, the idea is not wholly unappealing," he said flatly.

Hermione turned to him, frowning.

"Is that what you want to do?" she asked. "If– When everything is over? You would really want to disappear?"

"Wouldn't you?"

The young woman watched his unreadable features; his eyes were following the twinkling dot of a plane flying high over London.

"There will always be someone waiting, loving, hating, _remembering_ …" said Hermione in a low voice, Ginny's face flashing in her mind as she spoke. "You can't disappear, Malfoy. No one can."

The corners of his mouth twitched, his upper lip curling.

"Of course I can. In a few years, even the Ministry would have lost all interest in me, assuming I starved to death, offed myself, or became a worthless worm crawling among all the other scum of society and not representing any kind of danger. Who would fucking remember _me_ , Granger?"

"Your aunt, Andromeda, she's been asking about you… I'm sure she –"

"Sure she'd be delighted for a little family reunion?" sneered Malfoy, cutting her off. "And what would that look like? Do you think she'd go on the run with me? Or bring me pastries to Azkaban? Or hold my hand while I'm being drained by a Dementor? Because you don't think they would allow me to live as a functioning member of the society, do you?"

The look on his face was beyond bitterness, beyond desperation; it was a sense of unavoidability beyond anything she herself had ever felt. And at this moment, she knew in her gut how exceptionally lonely it was, being Draco Malfoy. For a fleeting second, she wanted to reach out and touch him to see if the abyss between them could be closed. She didn't.

"I would," she said instead. "I would remember you, Malfoy."

He looked at her, and she hoped he knew she didn't mean his broken self, but _him_ , all of him, and everything he could have ever been. Even in the darkness, she caught the brief trembling of his eyelid in the sudden and utter immobility of his features. He turned his face away, seemingly looking over the parapet, but she had seen the indescribable mix of incredulity and helplessness that had flashed in his gaze for an instant.

"Heard the Harpies are the favorites for the national championship this year."

It took Hermione a moment to understand what Malfoy was talking about, and when she did, she couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"They are playing against the Appleby Arrows next week for the qualification phase," she said.

"They'll crush them. Weaslette is good."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the nickname but couldn't suppress a grin.

"Is the kid alright?" asked Malfoy, changing the subject once more.

His voice was dispassionate, almost bored, but Hermione was nonetheless taken aback by his even bothering to feign interest.

"He's alright," she answered quietly after a moment.

She cast a sideways glance at Malfoy's profile and her eyes glinted mischievously, her lips twitching upward at the corners.

"I don't think he'll ask you to play again though. You've completely mangled it."

Was it the ghost of a smile on Malfoy's face?

* * *

 **A/N:** "And at this moment, she knew in her gut how exceptionally lonely it was, being Draco Malfoy." Yep, that was a _Cursed Child_ reference. I actually didn't like it but that phrase stuck with me.


	10. Fugue

**Chapter 10**

 **Fugue**

Hermione stood still, her gloved fingertips lightly touching the black iron surface of her desk as to brace herself. Its gleaming top, which never failed to remind her of an operating table and that for once wasn't hidden underneath dozens of parchments covered in scribbled notes, reflected her pale face leaning over it, oddly plain and shapeless in the artificial light that erased all notion of perspective inside the Chamber.

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione raised her head haggardly and met Monkstanley's icy eyes looking down at her from behind his metallic spectacles. His dry, sharp voice sounded like it was coming from afar, drowned out by the thundering of her blood that rushed in irregular waves from her chest and up her neck to her startled brain. Monkstanley bristled impatiently, his long fingers twitching at his side as though he was refraining from snapping them under her nose.

"Is that all, Miss Granger?" he repeated, jerking his head toward the trestle tables against the far wall of the Chamber, where a couple of Unspeakables were carefully encasing the selected manuscripts into flat, silver boxes under the supervision of a grim Curse-Breaker.

It was strange to see them busy themselves, their robes billowing around their ankles, their boots stomping on the floor, the metallic cases colliding with the iron surface of the tables, without ever making the faintest of sounds unless they spoke. She had never managed to get used to the deprivation of her senses inside the Archives Chamber.

Hermione focused her gaze back on Monkstanley's face and nodded stiffly. Her fingers were swimming in tacky sweat inside her dragon-hide gloves. Looking her over with a last annoyed glance, Monkstanley turned his back to her and walked over to the Unspeakables, leaving her standing by her desk bathed in the sterile light of the Chamber. She watched him examine the silver boxes, ticking off the books and manuscripts on the _Index –_ a long scroll of snowy white parchment covered with columns of titles, names and dates. When she was sure he wasn't paying her any attention, she quickly swiped her hand over the desk, her gloved fingertips catching the small book that lay there.

When they had entered the Chamber some ten minutes earlier, Monkstanley and the Unspeakables had found her standing over that same book, staring blankly at its unremarkable front cover. It was over an hour before lunch, but he had come to tell her she could take her Friday afternoon and that she wouldn't be needed before a week. The Department was closing for " _internal restructuring_ " he had said and had gestured for the others to start gathering the manuscripts she had set aside, but she had barely listened to him.

Hermione discretely edged toward the row of tables she had picked the book from and slipped it back on its previous spot. Her fingertips remained hovering over it for a fleeting moment as her gaze was inexorably glued to it once more. There was nothing particular about it; just a small, thick book of medieval origin with a faded black leather binding. It did not even have a title or an author inscribed on its cover, and that must have been why she hadn't immediately recognized it although she had been carrying its twin in her bag for almost a year. Said twin had had a title – ' _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ ' by Owle Bullock – but was now a heap of ashes scattered to the wind, burnt with most of the contents of her beaded handbag she had never even attempted to fully unpack.

Before realizing she was holding its second volume, she had opened the copy that now lay on the trestle table before her without much expectation. It had taken her a moment to comprehend the seemingly senseless markings written in a minute scrawl on every inch of free paper, allowing no space for the margins. There were Egyptian hieroglyphs, Celtic Runes and early variants of Greek and Latin woven into a text mainly written in Middle English. At first sight, it was an absurd mix that had no head nor tail: retellings of Antique myths and rituals – Muggle and Wizarding – followed Alchemy instructions, and more or less accurate historical fragments were laced with quotes in various languages: Paracelsus, Pliny the Elder, Hippocrates, Celsus…

The book exhaled the same aura its burnt twin once had and that made her skin crawl and stirred a compulsive need to wash her hands even though she was wearing gloves. On a closer look, this copy was more battered, and the taut leather had crackled around one of the corners, revealing the filling of the binding – layers and layers of some thin material, hard and brown. _Mummified_. Hermione swallowed the bile rising in her throat and withdrew her hand. It was trembling uncontrollably but luckily Monkstanley hadn't noticed it, and she didn't care enough to attempt hiding it.

"You are dismissed, Miss Granger."

She didn't need telling twice. In a few strides, she was at her desk, tearing off her gloves and scooping up her coat, scarf and bag. She was amazed by her own ability to walk straight and with apparent composure as she crossed the Chamber and left without a word. She stood still as the walls of the Antechamber rotated in a blur of black marble streaked with eerie blue torchlight, feeling as though she was floating, and then stopped before the Auror standing guard outside the circular room, letting him run his Probity Probe along the seams of her clothes.

It took Hermione a few confusing seconds to realize he had stopped moving, having finished his mandatory search, and was giving her a funny look as she stared absentmindedly into his face. Giving him an embarrassed nod, she started up the long corridor, forcing herself to adopt a measured pace. It was all useless; no Probity Probe could keep her from carrying out with her every bit of information she learned at the Department of Mysteries. It was all in her brain, etched there forever even when she wished she had never known it. The heels of her boots clattered against the tiled floor, echoes bouncing off the black marble walls of the hallway like ripples on water.

 _Clack, clack. Clack, clack. Clack, clack._ Death Eaters... _Clack, clack. Clack, clack_. Death Eaters, Death Eaters...

The dark passageway opening on her left and leading to the Courtrooms and Execution rooms one level below passed by at the periphery of her vision. The brighter square of the lifts lobby loomed at the end of the corridor, a few more patches of darkness delimited by the torchlight ahead.

 _Clack, clack._ Death Eaters, Death Eaters…

The irony of it all was almost hilarious. Clutching her lower ribs, Hermione broke into a run.

She bolted across the landing to a door opposite the golden grilles of the lifts. The panel banged loudly against the wall as she hurled herself through the doorway and rushed to the nearest cubicle.

 _Death Eaters_.

Hermione fell to her knees and vomited into the toilet. The last time she had been this sick was after Rowle's execution… The memory sent another wave of convulsions through her body. She hiccoughed, her hands clawing at the cold tiles of the walls on either side, but could only dry heave.

 _I disgust you._ Malfoy's broken voice rang in her head, standing out in the maelstrom of racing thoughts.

Hermione braced her elbows on the tiled wall and rested her forehead on her hands, closing her eyes and breathing deeply through her parted lips. When the churning in her insides receded, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and rose to her feet shakily, stepping out of the cubicle. She was surprised to meet her own reflection in the dull mirror above the sink. She examined her face as she washed her hands and rinsed her mouth, feeling as though she was looking at a stranger; her features were pale and taut, and utterly inexpressive. _Good_.

Hermione left the washroom and strode to the lifts, slipping her arms into the sleeves of her coat as she went. She took her wand out of her bag and transferred it to a pocket of her coat, keeping her fingers wrapped around it as she entered an empty lift and leaned against the far wall. It all made sense now. The puzzle was slowly piecing itself together in her head. She remembered the long period of exile mentioned in Herpo the Foul's biography, when he had vanished in an unknown direction for several years before coming back more powerful than ever. It must have been when he had realized his mistake.

The creation of the Horcrux did not make him stronger. Diminished and unstable, stuck in a still mortal body, he had gone to find a cure to the doom he had brought upon himself when he had decided to cheat Death. And at a time when Ancient Greece had raised itself to the position of the heart and the head of the civilized world, ruthlessly condemning the savage ways of its neighbors, only a mind as twisted as Herpo's could have turned on the taboo not an eye full of horror but of fascination. Where did he go? To the Scythians to the North? Or the Issedones to the East? Or was it the epileptics in the bloody arenas of Rome who showed him the way?

Hermione followed distractedly the flow of visitors and employees out of the cabin and into the Atrium. She was only vaguely aware of rounding the Fountain of Magical Brethren and passing the Memorial Wall as she headed to the Apparition area. The necessity to focus brought her back to reality as she stepped over the golden lines running on the floor. Taking her wand out of her pocket, Hermione turned on the spot, her mind trained on the façade of Flourish and Blotts; she needed to walk, to feel her body move for the fear and adrenaline to wear off. She needed to regain full control over herself before she faced him.

The hustle and bustle of the Atrium disappeared to be replaced with the abnormally quiet atmosphere of the nearly deserted avenue. Hermione squinted against the cold wind blowing in her face, looking around to get her bearings. She could see a few buildings down the road the top of the brick wall that hid the entrance to Diagon Alley. Hermione started down the winding avenue with purposeful steps, forgetting to apologize to the witch she had startled when materializing next to her. The world around her was quickly fading away despite all of her efforts to silence her own thoughts.

 _It is not human to apply one's lips even to the wounds of wild beasts…_

Hermione absentmindedly tapped her wand against the slightly dislodged brick that opened the archway giving to the back of the Leaky Cauldron and crossed the half-empty pub, exiting into the Muggle world.

 _The blood of a unicorn can keep one alive even if they are an inch away from death…_

She remembered very well the revulsion mixed with terror she and Ron had felt in their first year when Harry had told them Voldemort was in the Black Forest, drinking unicorn blood. There was something abominable about it that would have appalled them even if they hadn't been children.

… _But at a terrible price… They_ _will have but a half-life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches their lips..._

And what was the price for betraying your own kind?

 _A wretched cure bearable only because their affliction is even more wretched…_

Hermione stopped and stared at the chipped, white paint peeling off the door in front of her. She was winded. Somehow, she had made her way home through Muggle London and climbed the four floors of stairs to her apartment without noticing it. The storm of thoughts raging in her head suddenly cleared, leaving her in the silence of the dark landing. The muffled clanking of kitchen utensils was drifting from an apartment on the floor below. No sound was coming from the other side of the door before her. She wished he was in her room so she could have a few more moments to brace herself, but she knew it wouldn't change anything. She was grateful Nathaniel was at the Burrow. And when he would be back, Malfoy wouldn't be there anymore.

Her fingers gripped her wand tight and pulled it out of the pocket of her coat. He said he wanted to disappear. She would be glad to accede to his demand.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

Draco made a few steps across the living room and stopped before one of the windows, gazing blankly at the wreaths of gray mist slowly dissolving over the rooftops as bleak morning light permeated the thin clouds. He stuck a hand in the pocket of his pajama trousers and took a gulp from the rest of the cold coffee at the bottom of his cup. Granger's mug was still on the kitchen counter, and the pan he had used to brew the coffee stood on the edge of the sink. It was the first morning he managed not to burn the milk, and only the bitter, invigorating aroma of coffee hung in the air. It made Granger smile. The coffee, that is. Her getting up in the morning woke him anyway; he could as well do something to spare himself her dirty looks.

Draco turned away from the window and dragged himself to the couch. Granger had been in a hurry; her bedding was still spread over the sofa, a corner of her light blue, flower-print bed sheet hanging to the floor. Her misshapen pillow, pushed against an armrest, still had the impression of her head, and her comforter was tossed across the couch. Draco set his empty cup down on the coffee table and flung himself onto her wrinkled covers in the middle of the sofa, digging the tips of his bare feet into the soft carpet. Leaning his head back, he stared at the ceiling.

He now knew every little crack in the cheap, white paint covering it. The clock on the wall of the kitchen ticked louder, as always when the small hand completed a full circle around the dial. Almost eleven... Despite the strong coffee he had been sipping throughout the morning, he felt sluggish. The inactivity drained him. It wasn't even boredom. His mind, stuck between two extremes – a careless void and a newly recovered sharpness – was being sucked back into the loop of pointless existing whenever silence gnawed at him. At least eight more hours before Granger's return… He could make her some more coffee… A task before the end of the day…

 _He is sinking, sinking into something warm that wraps around him and engulfs his senses… He likes the feeling. It sparks something in his core, a heat that tugs and spreads under his navel. Merlin, he craves it… It has been so long… He is not even sure anymore he knows what it feels like – human touch. He remembers the hardness of the wall against his back and the clumsy, inexperienced fingers of the girl battling with his belt buckle, her short, almost panicked breathing panting in the darkness of the empty classroom… And it hangs right there, at the edge of his memory, at the edge of his numbed senses…_

 _And then she is here, within his reach yet faceless, but the warmth radiating from her against the whole length of his body is already overwhelming enough and feels too good to be true. His legs are wrapped around one of hers and the crook of her hip is between his thighs… He strains toward the softness, yearning for that moment his skin will meet hers… A brush would be enough to wake his senses from their torpor, a few strokes of her hand would be sufficient to feed him in his need… He exhales against her body, and her curves send back his breath with a whiff of jasmine…_

 _Click!_

Draco opened his eyes. The scent of jasmine mixed with another, sweeter one was filling his nostrils. Half of his face was buried in a flattened pillow, and he could feel a damp patch under the left corner of his mouth. He had slumped sideways from his sitting position, over the mess of Granger's makeshift bed. Her twisted comforter was tucked beneath his body and between his legs. The heat was still there, nested in his lower stomach, sharper and nagging now that he was awake. It felt almost foreign compared with the numbness that had long overtaken his body; it had been a matter of survival to learn not to notice the ever-present pain, cold, and weariness…

The lock of the entrance door clicked again.

Draco's heart leaped in his throat. Down the entrance corridor, someone was turning the doorknob. He propped himself up on his elbows, his own heartbeat almost too loud for him to catch the quiet shuffling of someone moving on the doorstep. It couldn't be Granger… She always apparated in the middle of the room… But it was already too late. He held his breath, his eyes trained on the doorway of the living room as the light steps drew nearer. Granger's figure appeared on the threshold of the room. A few stray curls of her impossible hair were falling on either side of her face, and the wind had loosened her scarf from around her neck and colored her cheeks. She stood still, her arms hanging at her sides. The bag dangling from one of her hands dropped to the floor with a soft thud.

She didn't say anything and just stood there, taking small, almost imperceptible breaths that made her chest rise rapidly. The rush of blood still thundering in his ears, Draco opened his mouth angrily but the words remained stuck in his throat. She was looking at him. A cold, emotionless stare he didn't recognize and that bore to his very core. He frowned, pushing himself upright and shifting as he was uncomfortably aware of his embarrassing lower half.

"Granger, what the –"

He slowly took in the twitching of her upper lip and the grayish tinge of her cheeks beneath her fading blush. It was when he noticed the wand she held at her side, her knuckles white from clutching it, that it hit him.

 _She knew._

He remained rooted to the spot, slouched ridiculously in the middle of the sofa, waiting for a word, a gesture of her that would confirm it. A part of him had been dreading this moment since the beginning; another half-expected she had known it all along, having surely done her research during the war… A wild hope shot through him: it could be something entirely else… He rose to his feet with deliberately slow movements, the comforter sliding off his lap and to the floor.

"Granger…" he breathed.

Her left eyelid had a spasmodic twitch; her eyes that had momentarily lost their focus snapped up to his, blazing. Terror flickered through her gaze, but she didn't recoil. His brain froze, becoming a useless, panicked mass. He had told her… He did tell her! Surely she remembered…

"Granger –" he croaked out.

He couldn't breathe. Granger leveled her wand at his chest.

"No…"

He was panicked to hear his voice break.

"Yes," she said quietly, and he recognized the look on her face: utter, unforgiving loathing. "You disgust me."

A flash of white light erupted from the tip of her wand, and he felt himself being blasted backwards. He landed on his back and slid across the floor to the other side of the room, the back of his head hitting hard against the wooden floorboards. The blow knocked all breath out of his lungs and his ears rang, and when the pain finally reached his brain, he writhed helplessly, black dots dancing before his eyes. He felt Granger's steps reverberate through the floorboards under his skull as she approached him.

Next moment, another hex sent him rolling sideways until he hit the wall next to her bedroom door and lay on his stomach. The pain shooting from his elbows and the back of his head paralyzed him. He tasted blood… He had bitten his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Granger's boots stop a few steps away from him. He managed to lift himself up and turned his head to look at her; her wand was aimed at his face, and her eyes were glinting with the same cold, murderous fury. The veins on her neck were pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. Draco pressed his back against the wall, his own heart thumping wildly, his gaze shifting between the wand pointed at him and her taut face.

"Granger…" he sputtered. "I didn't… I told you… I told you, Granger! I didn't do it! I didn't go through it all! I told you… I told you it takes another kind of magic…"

For an instant, he doubted she had even heard him. Then, her wand hand trembled and the rage twisting her features wavered to be replaced with horror as she came back to her senses. Slowly, she lowered her wand, her wide eyes locked on his.

"Where are you coming from?" she whispered.

A shudder ran through his body. He couldn't hold it back any longer… He screwed his eyes shut as the flashes of memories it had taken him all of his strength to suppress from his consciousness but that still haunted him in his sleep came crashing down on him like a tidal wave.

 _The flickering glow of the black fire along the windowless stone walls… A fear so ugly it threatened to consume him… 'Flesh of the enemy forcibly taken…' The heavy thud of a body collapsing onto the polished surface of the long table… Blood. Blood everywhere… 'Dinner is served, Nagini…' They were feasting together…_

He felt himself slide down the wall until his forehead touched the floor. He was blinded, unable to move… His stomach contracted violently. In that moment, he didn't even care he was crouching at Granger's feet like an animal. _He fucking deserved it… He should have offed himself... Now he deserved it all…_

"Malfoy!"

Granger's voice sounded somewhere on his left. Was she sobbing? He blinked, breathing heavily. At the periphery of his vision, he could see Granger squatting down next to him. Her wand lay discarded on the floor a few steps away.

"Draco…"

Her hand reached out to him tentatively; he flinched away.

"No," he hissed.

"Malfoy, I'm –"

They heard it at the same time – the tenuous, high-pitched ringing that announced somebody was apparating into the apartment.

"Get in the bedroom!" exclaimed Granger, jumping to her feet.

He wasn't sure his legs could support him but he was only two steps away from the door. He scrambled to his feet, leaping inside the room the moment the ringing stopped abruptly. Before the door swung shut behind him, he glimpsed Granger snatch her wand from the floor and flick it hastily to vanish her blanket and her bed sheets from the sofa.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

The door to her room had barely slammed shut that the characteristic _pop_ of Apparition sounded in the middle of the living room. Hermione was taken aback to see Kingsley, his dark purple robes swishing around his ankles as he materialized out of thin air and turned on the spot, searching for her.

"Good afternoon, Hermione," he said pleasantly. "I was hoping you would be home already."

Hermione hurried to step away from her bedroom door and schooled her features as he moved forward to shake her hand.

"I just got back, actually," she muttered, quickly slipping out of her coat and tearing her scarf from around her neck as though she had indeed arrived mere moments earlier.

She tilted her face away as she went to put the clothes on a bar stool and blinked furiously to clear her stinging eyes. She bit hard the insides of her cheeks before turning back to Kingsley; her heart was beating so forcefully, fluttering somewhere in between her collarbones, that she wondered if he could hear it from where he stood.

"What are you doing here?" she frowned, steeling herself to keep her gaze from flickering to her bedroom door and to control the trembling that threatened to seize the corners of her mouth.

"I believe I promised you an explanation," said Kingsley. If he had noticed anything, he politely ignored it. "Unfortunately, the Ministry is not the best place to talk about these things at the moment, and I thought it best not to send you an owl for the same reasons."

It took Hermione a moment to understand what he was talking about; her whole world had shrunk to revolve around the sense of dread that possessed her since her morning in the Archives Chamber, and the Tuesday events had completely left her mind. Her brows shot up as she was suddenly brought back to reality. Shacklebolt crossed the living room and took a seat in an armchair. Quickly recollecting herself, Hermione went to stand before him and crossed her arms; it was Molly who had told her Andromeda had come to pick up Teddy on Wednesday afternoon and was back home. Not knowing the details, Mrs. Weasley had only expressed her concern about Andromeda's stay at St Mungo's, and Hermione was left in the dark for the rest of the week. Her mind teeming with questions, she waited for Kingsley to start talking with her lips pursed into a tight line but he only gave her a tired kind of smile.

"I wouldn't mind a cup of tea," he said, gathering the folds of his ample robes around his legs.

Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Hermione went to the kitchen and took two cups from a cupboard, waving her wand to fill them with boiling water and not bothering with the electric kettle. She dropped two teabags into the cups and levitated them with a sugar bowl to the coffee table next to Kingsley.

"Is she alright?" she asked impatiently as he dropped three sugar lumps into his brewing tea and stirred it thoughtfully.

"Andromeda is alright," nodded Kingsley with a smile. "As we've already guessed, she was obliviated."

"Why?"

"Well, I had to call an old friend who used to work there and is now retired so he could examine her and partly alleviate the spell without me needing to have a warrant… I also trust him not to publicize the matter. He has some trust issues with the authorities, you see…" The corners of Kingsley's mouth twitched upwards. "The bottom line is that she was summoned to the Ministry – to the Department of Mysteries, precisely – for a test."

"A test?" repeated Hermione.

She had lowered herself onto the sofa while he spoke and was now sitting on the very edge of it, listening to him with attention. Kingsley glanced at her over the rim of his teacup.

"I believe you've already been inside the Death Chamber," he said, setting down his cup and looking at her pointedly. "What can you tell me about it?"

"Not much," she muttered, recalling her brief passage there at the end of their fifth year. "Although it is the least secretive Chamber of the whole Department, so I was able to do some research at the Hogwarts library afterward. Though most of it is hearsay, really…" she added with some disdain.

A crease appeared between her eyebrows as she recited every bit of information she could fish from the depths of her memory.

"The reason is that the Chamber actually contains a historical artifact – the Veil… It is believed the Chamber and the whole Ministry were built around it, but it's not true. Their origin is unknown, but the archway and its granite base have been moved several times throughout the centuries, belonging to various governing bodies before the Ministry was founded in London in 1707. It has had two known practical uses over time. For centuries, it had been used to carry out death sentences without much thought being given to its nature. In the eighteenth century, after the discovery of the Azkaban fortress and before it became a prison in 1718, it is said the Ministry used the Veil for experiments on the first criminals sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss. It had been established people could hear the voices of their deceased loved ones through the Veil. Assuming it was a portal between the world of the dead and ours, the Ministry wanted to know what happened to a soul that had been sucked out by a Dementor…"

Hermione shuddered unwittingly and took a sip of her now lukewarm tea.

"It appeared that, not immediately but eventually, the voices of the victims could be heard from the other side, which means the Dementors do not destroy the soul but release it after some time... As far as the public knows, the Veil hasn't been used ever since"

She trailed off and looked up at Kingsley, who was considering her with a mildly impressed expression. He leaned against the back of his armchair, turning his cup between his fingers.

"Have you ever encountered the name of Morgan le Fay during your research?" he asked.

"Morgana?" said Hermione with surprise, the historically inaccurate portrait of the witch featured on Chocolate Frog cards popping in her mind. "No…" As Kingsley watched her expectantly, she continued, wondering where it was all leading them. "Although we studied her with Professor Binns. Morgana is one of the only Wizarding figures to be present in both muggle and wizarding myths, along with Merlin. Mainly because they lived before the Wizarding community decided to go underground for good. Some Muggle legends depict her not as a witch but as a fairy or an angel who accompanied dead heroes to their final resting place – Avalon. In History of Magic, she is known as a practitioner of the Dark Arts and Merlin's enemy. Avalon is told to be the island where she lived, hidden the same way Azkaban was."

She cast Shacklebolt an impatient look.

"These are all tales for children! Avalon has never been found, even when the magic concealing it should have worn off after Morgana's death. It doesn't exist. What does it have to do with anything?"

"Every myth has its share of truth. And in this case, both Muggles and wizards were onto something. Except Avalon is not a place," said Kingsley.

Hermione watched him pull a scroll of parchment from an inside pocket of his robes and hold it out to her. She took it hesitantly, noting the remains of a broken, black wax seal with the letters _DoM_ on it. She was irritated to find herself before yet another page of scribbled Runes when she unrolled it. Shacklebolt waved dismissively when she began deciphering the ones at the top and pointed to a series of symbols that came up over and over through the whole text.

" _Emain Ablach_ ," read Hermione. "Avalon…"

She gave him a bewildered look.

"What is it?"

"A transcription of the last distinguishable Runes engraved on the archway in the Death Chamber."

"The Veil is Avalon?" breathed Hermione.

"The Veil was created by Morgana," nodded Kingsley, watching her attentively.

Hermione's gaze traveled between his face and the parchment in her hands.

"How did you get that?" she asked suspiciously, brushing the pad of her thumb over the wax seal. "It wasn't supposed to leave the Department of Mysteries…"

Shacklebolt remained silent. Hermione shook her head, realizing that even if he answered her, it didn't matter.

"Why are we talking about this? What is the link with Andromeda?"

She suddenly remembered the conversation between Monkstanley and Fawley she had overheard two weeks before as they exited the Death Chamber.

"I wasn't expecting you to point this out, but as you said earlier, the souls of those sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss can't be heard before a certain period of time from the other side of the Veil," said Kingsley, looking at her intently. "As you know, Lester Selwyn, Narcissa Malfoy, and Bellatrix Lestrange died in circumstances unrelated to the Dementor's Kiss… Mildred Selwyn and Andromeda Tonks are their last living relatives."

And suddenly it all clicked into place inside her head. Hermione couldn't help but shoot a panicked look toward the closed door of her bedroom. _They couldn't have this conversation now. They couldn't have it here…_ But there was nothing to do; she couldn't attempt casting a Silencing Charm without being noticed. Her wide eyes came back to Kingsley.

The Ministry knew.

"I'm sure you heard the rumors, Hermione," said Shacklebolt in a low voice. "And I'm sure you know it's more than rumors. You saw the last execution."

She had no reason to play coy. As far as she could tell, Shacklebolt didn't know about Malfoy. But even if his presence had nothing to do with her sheltering a Death Eater on the run, she had yet to determine why they were having this conversation, which she was sure had everything to do with the reason she had gotten her position at the Department of Mysteries in the first place. She cleared her throat, trying to adopt the horrified look of someone who had just had their worst suspicions confirmed.

"That's why the Ruling Committee stopped the trials and opened a new inquiry. You wanted to check if the rumors were true."

Shacklebolt inclined his head.

"Do you know…" Hermione drew a sharp breath. She didn't need faking her trouble; her heart was hammering inside her chest and her hands had gone cold. "Do you know where they are?" she whispered.

"The interrogations didn't give the Aurors anything apart allowing them to draw a list of all the involved prisoners that are still alive," answered Kingsley, shaking his head.

"So what is going to happen now?" breathed Hermione.

She was keeping her voice barely above a whisper, but she knew it was too late.

"Hermione, you have to understand that even I don't have access to full information." A crease had appeared between Kingsley's eyebrows and there was a look of urgency on his grave face. "Fawley is working with a team of Unspeakables and a handful of high-ranked Aurors who had to take an Unbreakable Vow, essentially making them Unspeakables as well. What I do know is that Fawley issued an order of transfer of prisoners from Azkaban to a temporary detention facility on the mainland, an hour after the decision to suspend the activities of the Department of Mysteries was taken."

Hermione felt the room spin around her.

"I am your access to full information," she stated coldly, looking Shacklebolt straight in the eye.

"I can't ask that much from you," he said calmly. "I doubt even someone within the Department could have access to full information unless it is their field of work. However, I do want you to keep your eyes open and your ears strained. Constant vigilance," he smiled sadly, and Hermione clenched her teeth.

"Why do you want the details?" she gritted out. "You don't think they only want to locate the Horcruxes?"

Shacklebolt considered her with attention.

"Oh, I think they do," he said sternly. "The Department of Mysteries has been experimenting on a great many things over the centuries. But some forms of magic are so rare there's simply nothing to experiment on. I believe this just changed."

Hermione sat frozen. Her heart plummeted inside her chest and pounded somewhere in the region of her stomach.

"But we are not in 1718 anymore," continued Kingsley in a low voice. "Some practices are no longer acceptable. If my assumptions have any basis, the Wizarding community will need proof."

Hermione let out a mirthless laugh.

"And you are going to serve it to them on a silver platter," she snapped sarcastically.

Kingsley set down his cup and stood up, readjusting his cloak around his shoulders and slipping the parchment he had shown her back inside a pocket. He walked over to the nearest window and gazed outside, his hands clasped behind his back. Pallid rays of sunlight were timidly piercing the canopy of clouds, creating puddles of light on the rooftops.

"You are not far from the Leaky Cauldron," he said thoughtfully. "I think I'm going to take a walk and have lunch there. The four walls of my office are starting to look way too familiar."

He turned around to face her with a warm smile.

"If you would show me the way out…"

Hermione saw no way she could refuse. She nodded reluctantly and rose to her feet, eyeing with a dull sense of foreboding her bedroom door as she headed to the entrance hallway. She let Kingsley exit first on the dim, narrow landing and carefully shut the door of the apartment behind them, discretely casting a Locking Charm. The descent seemed excruciatingly slow, and once Kingsley was out the door and she watched him walk away down the street in the direction of the main avenues, Hermione whirled around and bolted up the stairs.

She knew it the moment she set her foot in the apartment. A gush of icy air welcomed her when she opened the door and howled in the doorway. She let the panel slam shut behind her and rushed down the corridor, skidding to a halt on the threshold of the living room. Her gaze flew to her bedroom door before resting on the window behind the sofa; they were both wide open. Her heart sank.

Malfoy was gone.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

The iron squeaked and rattled under her feet as she ran down the old fire-escape ladder, holding onto the handrail with both hands. Hermione could feel the whole structure shake with metallic noises every time she jumped over two steps at the bottom of a flight of stairs, pausing on every landing to cast a look up and down the street below. But Malfoy had already disappeared. Hermione stopped abruptly; a flight of steps was missing between the rickety metallic grille of the last landing and the ground, replaced by a narrow folding ladder rust had long rendered unusable. Malfoy must have jumped.

Hermione grimaced, eyeing the space below. She suddenly regretted not taking the stairs in her desire to gain some time. It wasn't really high, but a wrong move could certainly result in a twisted ankle. Making sure her wand was safely tucked in the pocket of her skirt, Hermione squatted down and swung her legs over the edge of the platform, letting herself slide off it until she was hanging in the void, her hands gripping the edge of the metallic grille. She let go, landing hard in a crouched position on the asphalt below, the shock reverberating painfully up her shins.

Taking a wild guess, she started down the street in the direction of the big avenues. Malfoy would probably want to use the crowd to his advantage to vanish. Cursing her pencil skirt, she sprinted as fast she could, the icy air burning her throat with every gasping intake of breath. Something other than effort constricted her windpipe... Hermione skidded to a halt at the corner of the street, jumping to the side as she almost ran into a big lady carrying half a dozen shopping bags. The moving crowd blocked her path like a river. Winded, Hermione climbed the first steps of a high stoop on her right and stood on the tips of her toes, looking up and down the avenue over the heads of the passers-by.

She was starting to grow desperate when she caught a flash of unmistakable white-blond hair in the middle of the human tide. The idiot hadn't thought about pulling on the hood of her Oxford sweater he had apparently appropriated for good. He was walking fast, his shoulders hunched and his arms wrapped around himself against the cold, wending through the crowd of strolling shoppers and hurried employees gone out for lunch. Hermione leaped down the steps and dove into the crowd, elbowing her way in his wake. She slowed down at a few paces' distance, her eyes trained on his back despite the passers-by stepping between them every now and then. She couldn't resort to magic, and Malfoy would have no difficulties to throw her off if she tried to physically drag him back.

But he was moving closer to the walls now, and Hermione discretely edged to the side, slipping her hand into her pocket and picking up her pace. They were passing an empty dead end when she lunged forward, hurling all of her weight against his side and shoving him into the narrow side street. Malfoy hissed when she jabbed her wand into his ribs, backing him up against a dirty door under a deep porch. The semblance of sunlight that had been shining some half-an-hour earlier was gone, and the dead end was shrouded in shadows, the windowless sides of the houses towering over them. A large waste container standing between them and the avenue further blocked them from view.

"Get off me, Granger!" growled Malfoy furiously.

His right hand grabbed the front of her shirt and he pushed her hard, sending her stumbling backwards. Quickly steadying herself, Hermione closed the distance between them again and pressed the tip of her wand into the side of his neck. Malfoy stilled, breathing heavily and glaring down at her. Hermione slowly ran her gaze over him; his hair had been tossed to the side by the wind, the muscles in his jaw were twitching nervously. And in the depths of his dilated pupils fixed on her face, she saw not anger but panic.

"What are you doing?" she asked coldly.

"Fuck you, Granger!" seethed Malfoy.

His hand shot up again and curled around her wrist, twisting her arm away.

"You are not going to hex me with all these Muggles nearby," he sneered, attempting to push past her.

Next moment, he was being tossed back against the door with a flick of her wand.

"I asked you a question," said Hermione calmly, her wand aimed at his chest. "What are you doing?"

Malfoy glowered at her, his upper lip curling.

"I'm disappearing," he hissed. "I'm not going to sit and wait for them to make me into an experimental subject."

"What the hell are you talking about?" snapped Hermione. "They don't have any idea of where you are!"

"You are their lap dog, Granger," he spat. "If you think they are not watching you while you stick your nose in their business, you are fucking naïve! They won't be long to find _me_! You said I wasn't your prisoner, Granger, so sod off!"

"You are going to ruin your only chance and run away?" said Hermione quietly, frowning. "Don't be a coward, Malfoy."

For a moment, he just stared at her, his lips slightly parted, and then his features suddenly contorted with rage.

"Don't you act like you fucking care, Granger," he growled in a low voice.

Hermione couldn't keep herself from recoiling as he straightened to his full height.

"Don't you pull your self-righteous, holier-than-thou shit on me. You think you are saving your little Squib? You think you are saving _me_? You are just as much of a coward as your Saint Potter! The truth is you can't stand to be alone with yourself and think about the fact you couldn't save Weasley… So you pick up all the desperate cases you can find to give yourself some purpose… I'm not your fucking assignment, Granger!" he roared suddenly. "You can't fix me! Don't you see? I'm not sick! I'm not anything… So fuck you, Granger! Fuck y –"

 _SMACK!_

The slap resounded between the stone walls of the houses, drowned out by the rumbling of the cars and the hubbub of the crowd drifting from the main street. Malfoy reeled back, his hand over his left cheek. Without looking at him, Hermione slowly pocketed her wand. She felt bile burning in her throat. She suddenly felt very cold, standing in the icy wind without her coat. She looked up at Malfoy; he was collapsed against the wall, livid and staring at her with a mix of shock, anger, and something else she couldn't quite place.

"It's not up to me to convince you your life is worth something," she said evenly, looking him dead in the eye. "If you want to spend the rest of it running away and die in a gutter only to stay stuck in your own personal hell, go on. Your choice. I already have far enough on my plate, so it would be a relief, really."

Malfoy was listening to her silently, motionless. A drop fell from overhead on his left eyelid and he blinked.

"I'm not asking you to come back. I'm not asking you to fight. But I'm asking you to choose. You are alive and you have a choice, Malfoy. People fought for it. People died for it. And it's an insult to every one of them to screw up your only chance without even pausing to think about it."

Hermione wiped away a cold raindrop that had crashed on her forehead. She felt another one trickle down her neck and under the collar of her shirt.

"It's not over, Malfoy. We won the war, but he won something more. He won when they took your father to Azkaban. He won when your mother died. He wins every day you are in this state. I'm not fighting for you, Malfoy. I don't want to fight for someone who is not willing to fight for themselves. So you have to choose now. Because otherwise, you can as well jump off a bridge into the Thames."

With a last look at his frozen face, Hermione turned on her heels and marched out of the side-street. She slowly made her way back up the avenue, her arms drawn around herself as she started shivering. More cold drops were falling from the sky now, soaking the fabric of her shirt over her shoulders and her back. The wispy clouds were thickening and turning a deep gray, making the middle of the afternoon look like evening. She accelerated her pace, turning into her street and leaving the busy avenue behind her without a glance back. She didn't shudder when the footsteps trailing behind her finally caught up and something soft and heavy was quickly draped over her shoulders. The hoodie was slightly damp but still warm with Malfoy's body heat.

Hermione pulled it closer around herself, hurrying to finally reach the stoop of the house as the atmosphere was suddenly filled with the sound of thousands of drops lashing against the slate rooftops, the windowpanes and the asphalt of the road. She fumbled with the keys that resisted her frozen fingers and pushed the heavy front door with her shoulder, holding it open just a few seconds longer than was necessary for her to slip inside. She sensed his presence a few steps behind her back as they climbed the stairs without a word.

The wind had thrown open the unlocked door of her apartment, and it was swinging back and forth on its hinges in the cold draught gushing through the doorway and coming from the gaping window of the main room. Hermione kicked off her boots and went into the living room, flicking her wand at the windowpane that slammed shut before running it over her damp clothes to dry them. A moment later, the sound of the entrance door being closed came from down the corridor. Her face shut, Hermione turned around.

Malfoy was standing on the threshold of the room, his head slightly bowed and his arms hanging limply at his sides, staring unblinkingly at some spot on the floor. He had taken off his shoes, and she could see he had mismatched the socks he had pulled on hastily before fleeing – one of them gray and the other black. The upper half of his shirt was drenched and clung to his skin, even paler from the cold and standing out against the blackness of the fabric. A drop slid down his nose and hung on its tip. Another fell from a strand of white-blond hair sticking to his temple. Hermione's hard expression slowly shifted as she looked him over in silence.

"Sit," she said simply.

Malfoy lowered himself into an armchair without looking at her, his elbows on his knees and his shoulders hunched. Hermione rounded the sofa and stepped over one of his feet, perching on the edge of the coffee table between his legs. He flinched violently when her fingers wrapped around his head and tried to recoil but she held his head down firmly, threading her fingertips through his damp hair the time to find the bump that had started to swell at the back of his skull. She pressed the tip of her wand against it, quickly muttering a spell under her breath, and then waved it at his clothes to dry them the same way she had done with hers. Malfoy's head shot up, and he stared at her with a bewildered look upon his face. Hermione drew away and held his gaze.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I had stopped thinking."

He blinked and looked away, the muscles in his jaw tensing. There was a moment of silence, only interrupted by the loud tapping of the drizzle against the windows.

"Malfoy…"

"Don't."

His eyes snapped back to hers.

"Don't ask me to do this, Granger," he hissed, a scowl twisting his features.

"You have to –"

He stood up so brusquely it made her jump.

"I don't have to do anything. It's over. I've buried it," he spat harshly, turning his back to her and walking over to the window.

Hermione slowly rose to her feet and tugged on the hem of her skirt. She had torn her tights at the back of one of her calves, probably while jumping off the fire-escape ladder. She sighed and watched Malfoy's stiff back, her gaze pausing on his clenched fists at his sides. _She didn't want to hear it. She didn't want to know any of it…_

"You might have buried it but now it's rotting," she said quietly.

She moved forward, stopping a few steps behind him.

"Malfoy…"

Slowly, very slowly, Malfoy turned around to face her. She looked up into his stony face, searching for a crack and finding it at the bottom of his eyes.

"You have to talk," whispered Hermione.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Some people have freed themselves from epilepsy by drinking the still warm blood of a gladiator who has had his throat cut – a wretched cure bearable only because their affliction was even more wretched (Celsus, _On Medicine_ 3.23).

Epileptics even drink the blood of gladiators, from living cups, as it were. It is an appalling sight to see wild animals drink the blood of gladiators in the arena, and yet those who suffer from epilepsy think it the most effective cure for their disease, to absorb a person's warm blood while he is still breathing and to draw out his actual living soul straight from his wounds, even though it is not human to apply one's lips even to the wounds of wild beasts. Others seek a cure through eating the leg marrow and brains of infants (Pliny, _Natural History_ 28.4).

The Scythians and the Issedones – peoples living to the north and east of the Black Sea and in Central Asia during Antiquity – were known for being cannibals.


	11. Call and Response

**A/N:** I'm still alive and back! My last year of college has been insane (though it's not totally over yet). Here is the longest chapter I've ever written to celebrate the end of the hiatus!

Special thanks to the _amabulous_ Phinoa for being an incredible friend and motivating me to get back to writing by gushing about this story! Take a look at the new cover picture! It's her doing! She also helped me write the new summary, which I think is more intriguing than the first one. And go check her stories, guys! She is an amazing writer and a fabulous human being!

Also, I decided that from now on I would sketch the covers of my chapters when I can instead of doing aesthetics. You can find the cover art for this chapter on my art blog: RunningQuill-art on Tumblr.

Alright, I'll leave you to your reading! I hope you are still there and enjoy it!

* * *

 **Chapter 11  
Call and Response**

 _The rippling candlelight reflects in the polished surface of the long table and casts moving shadows on his hands that lay flat in front of him. They look almost white against the dark wood, as though carved from marble in their utter immobility. He feels like he is carved from marble too, his gaze fixed upon a black wood stain next to his right ring finger. The glow of the chandelier overhead bounces off the silver family crest on his phalange. He sees it out of the corner of his eye, intently keeping his field of vision reduced to the pattern of darker veins running through the wood. It's easy now to shut his mind, to ignore the pain searing through him as the woodwork of his chair digs into his flesh. He presses himself into the hard back despite the gashes across his spine, still raw and threatening to reopen with every false move. It's almost easy to pretend he doesn't see, he doesn't hear… He could almost imagine he is not even here…_

 _He always liked this table, even when he was too little to have his own chair and had to sit on Mother's lap. Especially then. It was one of the very few places where the three of them gathered together, with Father at the very end and he and Mother on his right. It might have seemed a bit ridiculous, really, this long, massive dining table with dozens of high-backed empty chairs around it only for them to occupy two seats at the very end, but it wasn't. It was the visual concretization of their being set apart from the rest of the world, of their being special. He felt special, even when he wasn't allowed to talk unless Father or Mother addressed him directly. This, at least, hasn't changed since he was five years old. Except that nobody was talking now._

 _On his left, Mother's hands are only a few inches away from his, neatly folded together on the table. He can see her skin swell on the inside of one of her wrists, where her pulse is; quick, short beats that are the only sign of emotion she can't conceal. He looks down at his own hands, at the network of bluish veins on their back. Inside, his blood feels frozen. If he shifts his gaze just a little across the table, he can glimpse Dolohov's fist resting on the surface. His other hand is under the table, and he knows his fingers are clutched around his wand. Not that he would ever use it… The man doesn't even try to hide his fear of the giant snake uncoiling and slithering between them. What for? Fear always pleases their Master._

 _It becomes harder to feign deafness as the squelching sounds of the fangs tearing into flesh rip the silence. He thinks he feels a warm, damp patch on his lower back; one of the gashes must have reopened at last, soaking the fabric of his shirt. In a few hours, everyone will be gone and he will wish Mother good night, go to his room, and drink until it makes him sick. It's unbearable, this stubborn refusal of his body to be sick. His insides feel as though they have turned to stone, pinning him to his seat as if he had an anvil in his stomach. It is something beyond nausea. The tiny cracks in the wooden surface of the table fill with crimson like minuscule riverbeds. He merely draws his hands half-an-inch closer to himself to give way to the small stream of blood running past him._

 _The Master and His beast are feasting._

Air pushed down his windpipe, tightened in a spasm, as his eyes flew open, his dilated pupils focusing unseeingly on the delicate pattern of chipped gold paint that ran along the edge of Granger's dressing table. His temple was pressed against its hard surface, his muscles locked and sore as he sat on the low stool, slumped over the table, a hand tucked under his cheek. Hundreds of tiny needles jabbed his fingers when he raised his head haggardly. Bright, undiluted light streamed in through the window on his right, the sun already high in the sky, which, at this time of the year, meant it was close to midday. The clear, neat room was almost too much to take in when crimson patches still swirled beneath his eyelids every time he closed them.

He didn't remember falling asleep… It felt as though he hadn't been sleeping at all, as though he had merely flipped from one reality to another. He had woken up at dawn, his mind a buzzing mess of receding dreams and hazy scraps of memories that slipped away like sand between fingers when he tried to look at them more closely. He hadn't moved from the bed even as Granger and the kid had started to shuffle about the living room, only getting up after he had heard them leave. She didn't knock at the door or call for breakfast, didn't address him at all over the past near two days he had spent cloistered in her sterile room, only venturing out to get whatever food he could find first. Maybe she was still trying to decide his fate. Maybe she didn't care. Now, no sound came from the rest of the apartment. Granger and the kid hadn't returned yet.

 _She had listened to him, listened without interrupting as the rain kept thundering against the windows throughout that Friday evening, only getting up to make some more tea. She didn't seem to notice she hadn't touched her first cup, which remained on the coffee table between them, a thin pellicle covering the surface of the black liquid like ice over a pond. She hadn't touched the second cup either. Maybe she just needed something to occupy her hands. It had been impressive to watch her rein in her revulsion and fear even as he himself chocked with nausea and stumbled over his words. Somehow, once he had started talking, he hadn't been able to stop himself before it was all out. It was like being in freefall. And when he had stopped at last, winded, hands cold and balled into fists, Granger had blinked and slowly stood up, leaving the apartment without looking at him. Something had broken in her that day…_

Draco ran a hand over his eyes and up through his hair that was starting to feel too long again. The triptych mirror before him – so old that the silver foil beneath the glass had started to blacken and peel off in a corner – sent back his unnervingly pale reflection, the drawn features of a stranger waiting to be taken to the scaffold. A dark red smudge ran along the edge of his jaw… The razor had bit his skin when shaving that morning. It had continued bleeding while he slept. Draco dragged a finger over it. The truth was like the clotted blood underneath his fingernail. Ugly. Ironic. The twisting in his gut almost made him want to be back in the loop of numb existing he had begun to extricate himself from only a week before… He suddenly realized he was waiting for Granger's sentence.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

Hermione paused in the doorway, running her gaze around the familiar living-room. The clean smell of cotton floated in the air; her mother had lit a scented candle on the mantelpiece. The room looked smaller. The whole house looked smaller every time she came there, even though it was long she had stopped physically growing up. She guessed everything felt smaller with the years. Or maybe it was just her; maybe it was part of her suddenly feeling too old for her own skin. Hermione crossed the room and went to stand before the bay window in the far wall, wrapping her arms around herself.

Behind her, the clanking of dishes and silverware was drifting from the kitchen, where her parents were busying themselves preparing lunch. Her mother had firmly pushed her out of the kitchen before she could even attempt to help, pretending there was already barely enough room for three of them. Her father had picked up Nathaniel to make him stand on a chair next to him to help him prepare mashed potatoes, feigning not to notice when the boy delightedly poked the warm mash with his fingers. Hermione heard him sneeze. He had started sneezing the moment they had stepped over the threshold, causing her mother to usher Crookshanks out of the house before she had time to see him.

Hermione gazed outside the bay window into the back garden, where the cat was lurking out of view, probably hiding in the bushes along the far fence. The shadow of the house was slowly shifting across the dew-covered lawn as the sun laboriously rose to its zenith. Hermione pulled apart the sliding glass panels and slipped outside, swiftly closing them behind her not to let the crisp morning air into the house. A chill ran up her arms despite her mother's knitted cardigan she had pulled on. She looked up at the clear, plain sky; all the clouds had vanished overnight, replaced with a translucent haze that made the blue look faded and the sunlight cold.

For once, she almost wished it was raining. She would have stood in the downpour, letting it wash away the sense of dirtiness that stuck to her skin. Her mother would have ran out to force her back inside and would have made her stay on the couch for the whole afternoon, wrapped in a blanket and drinking unreasonable amounts of peppermint tea, despite all her assurances that a dose of Pepper-up potion would have been far more efficient. She wished she someday had the luxury to be that childish again, even once in her lifetime. It seemed so laughable now, selfish even, to consider gambling with her health at the risk of not being fully operational if only for a few hours.

Hermione started across the lawn, her old quilted slippers sinking into the soft, rain-soaked ground, the light blue fabric darkening from the humid grass. The dark, rectangular patches of earth on either side of the garden were still naked; her father wouldn't start planting bulbs before another month. He had been talking about blue columbines; the weather was too cold for the usual arum lilies. Even the small Prunus in a corner of the fence bore far fewer flutters of white flowers.

The lower branches of the hedge rustled as she approached, and the orange tip of a shaggy tail whipped out in her direction. Knowing very well that cooing or pleading was of no use, Hermione squatted down without a word and plunged her arms into the bushes, retrieving the writhing form of a large cat. Crookshanks' yellow eyes flashed dangerously when she firmly pressed him against her chest and held the scruff of his neck between her fingers to keep him still.

"Come on, now," she sighed. "You aren't even going to say hello?"

Crookshanks emitted a low, continuous growl, his muzzle looking even more squashed as he lifted his whisker pads angrily. Hermione ignored the obvious signs of discontent and wrapped her hand around the cat's head, scratching him behind the ears. Slowly, his growling turned into loud purring that thrummed through her chest.

"Remember these spiders you used to bring me?" whispered Hermione into his fur.

It smelled like rain from the drops that had gathered there from the branches of the hedge.

"I would praise you, I would tell you to keep catching them… I would tell you to show them to me. And then you brought this really big spider and left it between my pillows. And I yelled at you…"

An indignant hiss briefly interrupted the cat's purring.

"You know I wasn't angry at you," continued Hermione in a low voice. "I wasn't even afraid of the spider. But I was angry because it was on my bed. It was nasty, and it was on my bed, and I had no desire to see it there. But I was the one who asked you to show them to me… I wasn't angry at you. I just didn't want to know about the existence of this spider… "

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath; she had missed this powerful smell of grass wafting all around her from the garden gorged with water. The heart of the city smelled like asphalt and metal.

"I'm not angry at him, Crookshanks. I'm not even disgusted…"

"The food is ready, Hermione."

The young woman turned around toward the voice. Her mother had come out of the house and was eyeing her blue jeans reprovingly as she rose to her feet: the fabric over her kneecaps was stained with muddy green from kneeling on the ground. Crookshanks sprang out of her embrace and scampered under the hedge, flashing Mrs. Granger a look full of contempt.

"He is losing his hairs," muttered Hermione, gazing at the branches that were still shaking in his wake.

"He is an old cat," said her mother softly.

She went to stand in front of Hermione and caught her chin between her fingers, tilting her face up.

"You look tired, honey," she frowned, sucking in the inside of her cheeks as she always did when she was worried.

Hermione gently freed herself from her mother's hands and took a step back. She probably indeed looked rather dreadful when compared with the tanned, healthy complexion her parents still sported after their year-long stay in Australia.

"I'm alright, mom."

"Can you and Nat stay for dinner?" asked her mother.

"We didn't even have lunch yet," chuckled Hermione.

Her smile slowly slid from her face as she watched her mother's hopeful expression.

"We can't…" she answered apologetically. "Luna is waiting for him for a drawing session this evening. It's been a while since he last saw her."

Her mother's shoulders fell a little but she gave her a resigned look.

"Is her father still –?"

She trailed off as though she couldn't find the politically correct way to say it, her expression halfway between uneasiness and polite concern. Hermione felt a pang of irritation immediately followed with a wave of guilt. _She didn't know. They simply didn't know what it had been like, what it still was._ She was the one who had made sure of it.

"Yes," she sighed, "he is still…"

Her mother looped her arm through hers, steering her back toward the house.

"She should take him somewhere," she said. "A trip could be beneficial. A breath of foreign air to change his mind."

"He can't leave the country, mom. He can't even leave the house," replied Hermione in a low voice.

She let her mother go first inside the house and paused between the sliding panels of the bay window, looking over her shoulder. Crookshanks had crawled out from beneath the bushes and was rummaging through the naked flower beds, searching for bugs. An old cat for an old girl.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

The sunrays had a warmer feel to them as the day went on. Hermione had unbuttoned her coat and unwound her scarf from around her neck, letting it hang freely from her shoulders and flap against the sides of her legs as she and Nathaniel slowly ascended the street, his small hand tucked inside hers. The clear sky had made the prospect of a walk home tempting, and they had taken a Muggle bus to come back to the center of London. Nathaniel had spent the short journey with his face pressed against the dusty window, watching their moving reflection in the puddles along the side of the road that looked like an endless rippling mirror.

The environing brightness, however, appeared to be more of an illusion, and the world was a contrast between sharp cold and elusive heat. Hermione felt the lukewarm sunrays play on the skin of her neck and cheeks, their fleeting touch quickly erased by the icy bite of the breeze. She lifted her face, squinting against the light; it was barely four in the afternoon, but the sun was already halfway through its descent to the horizon and hung right in between the two rows of houses lining the street, teaming up with the wind to blind her.

"Are you still friends?"

Slightly puzzled, Hermione snapped out of her reverie and looked down at Nathaniel, who had been following his own train of thought. He kept his gaze on the pavement, focused on leaping from one cobblestone to the other.

"He didn't eat with us," he said sternly, a small crease between his eyebrows.

"Oh," sighed Hermione, understanding. "Yes… Yes, we are still friends. He was just a bit tired."

Nathaniel jumped with his feet together across a narrow puddle that had drowned a portion of the sidewalk and looked up at her briefly, grinning. Hermione playfully pinched his soft cheek and gently steered him to the stoop of the house as they finally reached it. She held the heavy door for him, and when his breathing became short from climbing the stairs, she picked him up and settled him on her hip, holding onto the handrail with one hand and clutching his hat and scarf with the other, her arm wrapped securely around the little boy as she carried him up the two remaining flights of steps. She put him back on his feet on the landing to unlock the door and let him scamper past her into the apartment, helping him to untie his shoelaces and take off his coat in the entrance.

"Pumpkin juice?" she smiled, following him into the open kitchen once she had slipped out of her own boots and coat.

Nathaniel, who had climbed into his favorite chair, nodded, his small hands splayed on the surface of the dining table. Blood had rushed into his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and his knuckles that were all a healthy pink from the cold. Hermione took a bottle of pumpkin juice from a cupboard and poured him a glass, sprinkling it with cinnamon. She watched him for a moment as he sipped it conscientiously, lightly running her fingertips through his hair that had been flattened at the top of his head by the hat. The little boy hummed into his glass, swinging his legs as he sat, looking lively despite the upcoming visit to St Mungo's the next day. The small smile playing at the corners of Hermione's mouth faltered, and she made a few steps across the kitchen, stopping by the counter and running her gaze around the living room.

There was a sense of emptiness reigning in the place. Half of the curtains were still drawn and Malfoy's favorite armchair bore no marks of someone sitting in it. Frowning, Hermione cast a look over her shoulder; there were no dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. She rounded the counter; her bedroom door stood ajar, the rays of light streaming through the windows intersecting on the floorboards with the paler beam coming from inside the room. Hermione crossed the living room and quietly pushed the door.

The bed was a mess of twisted sheets, and a cold draught met her on the threshold. Malfoy was standing by the window, which was cracked open, his tall, lean figure cut out against the daylight. He was leaning his shoulder against the wall, the side of his head resting against the glass and his hands stuck in the pockets of his black trousers as he breathed in the icy air gushing from outside. The cold sunlight filtering through the narrow gap had drawn a sharp, white line across his face, from his hairline, down the side of his forehead, in the hollow of his eye socket and over his angular cheekbone. His hair, eyebrow and lashes looked silvery where the colorless light hit them. Perfectly still and with his eyes closed, he looked almost asleep.

Hermione watched him silently, wondering in the back of her mind whether he had just woken up or if he had been standing like this for hours. Letting go of the doorknob, she stepped inside the room, the old floorboards beneath the carpeting creaking under her weight. Malfoy's eyes snapped open, his whole body coming into motion as he pushed himself from the wall and spun in her direction. Hermione glimpsed her own reflection in the mirror of the dressing table; her hair looked slightly disheveled and her cheeks were still blooming with red patches from the effort of carrying Nathaniel up the stairs. Turning her gaze back on Malfoy, she noticed the utter stillness of his features, which was too unnatural to be part of his usual lack of emotion.

"We are home," she said hesitantly.

"I heard."

His voice was raspy again, and Hermione's gaze traveled disapprovingly between the open window and the thin, black shirt he was wearing. She lingered in the doorway for a few more seconds, but as Malfoy didn't give any sign of striking up a conversation and only stood watching her blankly, she turned away with a small shake of her head and left the room.

Nathaniel had taken his pumpkin juice to the living-room and was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, his stern hazel eyes following her over the lip of his glass as she returned to the kitchen area. Hermione absentmindedly flicked her wand at the electric kettle, which suddenly filled with water and clicked on. She was fishing a teabag from a tin can when the daylight bathing the kitchen shifted as Malfoy stopped across the counter. Hermione busied herself with the sugar bowl, but as his silhouette didn't seem like moving, she raised her gaze to him uneasily.

"You didn't have lunch?" she asked.

The kettle started sputtering faintly and she turned to it.

"I did."

Hermione paused, frowning at the empty sink and noticing the droplets at the bottom and the wet sponge.

"Did you –" she started, casting a surprised look over her shoulder.

But Malfoy was already on the other side of the living-room, sinking into his favorite armchair across from Nathaniel. Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye as he propped his feet up on the edge of the coffee table, drowning her teabag in steaming water. The sharp lines of his profile silhouetted against the daylight, and she distinctly saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed painfully. She dropped her gaze, looking unseeingly into the swirling dark depths of her cup, the clanking of her spoon echoing the thumping of her heart and the growing pressure inside her chest.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she had taken too big of a bite, and now, somewhere deep down, a treacherous, selfish voice she wanted to ignore was telling her it had never been part of her survival agenda. Maybe she was getting too scared of things she would rather have never known, things she couldn't fathom. Sore throat, sour look, thin limbs, a tiredness that seemed to ceaselessly weigh him down… That she knew, that she could deal with. But the rest… It was mad to think it was within her competences. And maybe everything she was doing was a lie, a façade to live up to her own expectations when she would have been perfectly content with a dull job of filling in routine blanks for the MLE Department and writing essays about things she'd probably never need, content with her letters remaining unanswered and promises she knew she could keep...

Bringing the cup to her lips, Hermione looked up grimly and froze. Nathaniel had rounded the coffee table and stood before Malfoy, his arm in midair as he held out a small square of green paper. She recognized the gold lettering of one of the invitations Ginny had sent them to a friendly training session the Harpies and the Kenmare Kestrels were to have in a week. Malfoy raised his head from the back of the armchair and stared blankly at the glossy ticket and then at the child, who had his eyes trained somewhere on his left. After a moment, Nathaniel mutely deposited the small paper on Malfoy's knee and went to resume his previous spot on the carpet across the coffee table.

"It's for you," he mumbled as though to no one in particular, twiddling with a loose thread that had escaped the hem of his blue jeans.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, his arms still crossed, and cast Hermione a questioning look. The young woman bit her lip.

"Nat," she called softly, taking a few steps in his direction, "don't you want to see Ginny?"

She knew very well it was the prospect of a noisy, excited crowd that terrified him. But he couldn't stay between four walls forever, and she had hoped a Quidditch game and the possibility to see Ginny after several weeks would have been tempting enough to lure him into the vicinity of other people. But the little boy only shrugged and his shoulders hunched as Malfoy picked the ticked from his lap and leaned over to toss it back towards him across the coffee table, before resuming his indifferent staring at the ceiling. Hermione shot him an angry glare.

"You don't like Quidditch?" muttered Nathaniel, watching the paper that had landed a few inches away from him.

A scowl of annoyance was starting to spread over Malfoy's features, and Hermione intervened before he could reply.

"Ginny really wants to see you, you know," she said, squatting down next to the little boy and trying to look into his downcast eyes. "You could tell her about Arnold."

Nathaniel reached for the ticket and ran his fingertips along the edges, worrying the corners of the paper. He suddenly looked positively miserable, and Hermione felt a pang of shame and disgust at her using his affection for Ginny to force him into an event that terrified him.

"It's okay, Nat," she whispered, trying to stifle the shrill edge to her voice. "It's alright. We don't have to go. You could make Ginny a beautiful drawing of Arnold and we would owl it to her, what do you say?"

Hermione tentatively ran her hand across his small back as the little boy started to fold and unfold the ticket, pressing his fingertips along the crease lines and smoothing it out again. She watched the side of his grave face for a few more seconds, before pushing herself to her feet and slowly returning to the kitchen. She took a sip of warm tea, the guilt still burning at the back of her throat, her eyes glumly following the beams of light shifting across the table.

"Why don't you like Quidditch?"

Hermione tensed and looked up as Malfoy's voice sounded from the living-room. He had pushed himself to his feet and his gaze briefly met hers as he went around the coffee table, before lowering himself stiffly onto the floor next to Nathaniel. The boy was still folding and unfolding the green ticket, apparently trying to shape it into something without much success. He paused to peer at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye, and the latter took the occasion to retrieve the battered ticket from Nathaniel's hands and put it out of his reach. He then seized a blank piece of drawing paper from a pile lying nearby and spread it out on the low table, starting to fold it expertly.

"I like Quidditch," muttered Nathaniel, his eyes following Malfoy's hands with fascination.

Hermione was doing the same, leaning over the kitchen counter as she silently watched the scene with a mixture of wariness and bewilderment. Her surprise only grew when Nathaniel spoke again.

"There will be people," he whispered, his gaze trained on the geometrical shapes taking form between Malfoy's fingers with a soft rustle.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. He rarely voiced these things… He would go stern and quiet, and his narrow shoulders would sag, but the words were almost never said aloud. Hermione carefully set her cup down. Malfoy's face was unreadable.

"Too bad," he said indifferently, focused on his folding. "I'm sure Weas– Ginny would have loved to impress you with the Woollongong Shimmy."

"The what?"

All trace of uneasiness was gone from Nathaniel's features and he was staring with interest into Malfoy's face.

"The Woollongong Shimmy," repeated Malfoy. "Do you know what it is?"

The little boy giggled.

"It doesn't exist," he replied, dimples still creasing the corners of his mouth.

Malfoy snorted, and Hermione would have sworn a corner of his lips had twitched upwards.

"Of course it does. It's when a Chaser flies in zigzag to confuse the adverse team. She is still playing Chaser, right?"

Malfoy shot the boy a sidelong glance. Nathaniel nodded.

"Do you know what the Sloth Grip Roll is?" asked Malfoy again, leaning over the table as he folded a particularly small corner.

Nathaniel shook his head no with eagerness.

"It's when a player hangs upside down on his broomstick to avoid a Bludger. Like a sloth."

Another delighted giggle escaped Nathaniel's lips.

"I remember Ginny being a rather good player," drawled Malfoy, straightening. "She would probably have shown you the Chelmondiston Charge as well… Or the Wronski Feint. At least, other people will get to see it," he finished flatly.

Nathaniel shifted, a small frown appearing between his eyebrows. Malfoy turned to him and held out his hand; a paper crane sat in his palm. Hermione tilted her head with curiosity as the boy's gaze shifted between the bird and Malfoy's face as though he was waiting for something. For a fleeting second, she had the impression Malfoy was refraining from looking in her direction before he imperceptibly shook his head. After a moment hesitation, Nathaniel plucked the paper crane from his hand with a somewhat disappointed look. He gazed at it thoughtfully, his thin eyebrows knitted together, his lower lip jutting forward as he seemed to mull over Malfoy's words. Then, slowly, he stood up on his knees and reached across the table for the Quidditch ticket. He carefully pocketed it with the paper bird and sat back on the carpet, starting to gather his scattered color pencils. He seemed to have forgotten Malfoy's presence, but Hermione caught him sneak a sideways glance as Malfoy rose to his feet. She watched him cross the living room, his hands in his pockets, his face once more an unreadable mask.

"Thank you," she said quietly as he went past her.

Malfoy halted, his steely eyes sliding to her. He held her gaze for a brief moment, then inclined his head ever so slightly, a sense of weariness settling over him as he headed back to her room without a word.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

The bluish sky was already tinged with faded violet when Hermione and Nathaniel materialized in the middle of an abandoned field invaded by shriveled weeds. The sun's colorless disk, which now hung dangerously low over the horizon, was hidden by the hill towering before them. Hermione pocketed the shapeless stub of a candle she was holding and waited for the boy to regain his balance after the Portkey travel. She shivered a little in the wind blowing hard through the valley and readjusted Nathaniel's hat over his ears, before they started up the hill towards the mill-like tower at its crest.

The ground beneath their feet was frozen and easy to ascend, unlike the usual rain-soaked mud. The space above them was an untainted haze, very different from the sky they had left back in London and that had started to swarm with ominous clouds towards the end of the afternoon. Nathaniel was leaping over the rocks protruding from the hillside, clutching Hermione's hand and humming something into his scarf. His face was a healthy pink when they reached the crooked stoop of Luna's home, and clouds of vapor were escaping both their mouths. Nathaniel paused by the naked Dirigible Plums bushes, peering between the lower branches as he tried to glimpse one of the field gnomes that infested the burrows beneath the hill. Hermione squinted up at the tower; silvery light bounced off its black walls, blinding the young woman as it pooled around the house like a stream around a rock. The creaking of the front door and Nathaniel's delighted squeal broke her out of her thoughts.

Luna was smiling at them from the doorway, seemingly oblivious to the icy wind that caught the flaps of her rather summery tunic. Nathaniel ran up the stoop and stopped two steps away from her. Even though his gaze was fixed on Luna's purple woolen socks, there was no doubt his grin was for her. The girl patted his head affectionately, and Hermione followed them inside, welcomed by the mixed scent of boiled beetroot and lime tea.

"Is everything alright?" asked Luna, glancing up at Hermione as the latter entered the single room of the ground floor.

Hermione nodded; despite all the things she had already told Luna, she wasn't going to add her Friday morning at the Department of Mysteries and what had followed to the list. With a smile she hoped didn't appear forced, she helped her clear a spot for Nathaniel at the cluttered kitchen table, which also served as an art studio and a sewing workspace.

"You haven't had lunch yet?" wondered Hermione, looking at the laden tray that sat on the curved kitchen worktop.

The strong beetroot smell was wafting from a bowl of purplish soup.

"It's for dad. He's been too busy to have lunch,' answered Luna lightly. "I was going to bring it to him."

Hermione's heart clenched.

"Bad day?" she mouthed, locking eyes with Luna over the table.

"No, I'd say it's a good one," said the blond girl softly with a faraway look on her face. "What is it, buddy?"

Her dreamy look gone, she grinned widely at Nathaniel, who had climbed on a chair beside her and was tugging on her sleeve. He opened his hand and proudly produced a somewhat wrinkled paper crane.

"How pretty!' exclaimed Luna. "Did you do it yourself?"

His eyes downcast, Nathaniel seemed briefly tempted to nod, and Hermione suppressed an amused grin. Finally, the little boy shyly shook his head and his lips soundlessly formed a word. It took Hermione a moment to realize it was Malfoy's "new name".

"Dorian?" smiled Luna. "That's very nice of him! Would you like to paint it? What do you say?"

Nathaniel nodded, carefully setting the bird on the table.

"Alright, you pick the colors then. I'm going to take this to dad," said Luna to Hermione. "I'll probably have to stay with him for a moment to make sure he eats it… Can you wait a bit?"

"Let me," replied Hermione, firmly taking the tray from her with a reassuring smile.

She headed for the rickety iron staircase that spiraled upwards through the floors, levitating the tray before her to grip the handrail as she climbed it. After the blaze of dying daylight that flooded the ground floor through the western windows, it took her a moment to adjust to the gloom in the upper room, where almost all the curtains were drawn. The air was stuffy but devoid of any unpleasant smell. Hermione stepped on the landing, the shadows around her slowly taking form.

Instead of the lifeless room she had expected to find, her ears were immediately assailed with a continuous whirring and rhythmical typing sounds. The floor beneath her feet was vibrating from the heavy printing press across the room spitting out colorful pages. Some of the tottering piles of books and newspapers had been overthrown and littered the floor alongside empty tin cups. The rocking chair Luna's father usually occupied was empty.

"Mr. Lovegood?" called Hermione, peering into the half-light.

Clumsy footsteps sounded on her left, and she spotted his agitated form behind the printing press.

"It's Hermione, Mr. Lovegood," she said in a clear voice, setting the tray on a round low-lying table.

She walked over to a rhombus-shaped window and pulled the curtains apart, before turning to the thin man busying himself over the ancient printing press. He appeared completely oblivious to her presence, nervously muttering something under his breath as he circled the shaking machine, gathering the pages with trembling hands. Hermione crossed the room, winding her way through the mess on the floor and picked up a fallen sheet of glossy paper that looked like an article from an old edition of the Quibbler – one from before... Green eyes blinked up at her from behind round glasses he hadn't bothered to clean even for the interview. Hermione let go of the page, which rustled back to the floor, and closed the distance to the printing press.

"Mr. Lovegood," she called gently. "I brought your lunch."

The man didn't react. His long mane of dirty blond hair was falling on either side of his sallow face. He was disheveled, but his washed-out yellow tunic and white chausses looked clean. Hermione cautiously put a hand on his arm and he stilled.

"Luna is worried about you. She says you need to eat," said Hermione firmly.

"Luna…" muttered Xenophilius.

"She made soup," continued Hermione, steering him to his rocking chair that stood in a well of light beneath a window.

He let her seat him and put the tray on his lap without making a fuss. As he dipped the spoon into the reddish soup – strands of hair hanging dangerously near the liquid – Hermione settled on the edge of a low dresser and considered him grimly. He kept muttering incoherently in between spoonfuls, and she caught the words "going to make a lot of noise" among a string of repeated "they'll see!". His eyes shone with the same manic look she remembered from before the war and that everyone used to mistake for mild madness. The mistake wasn't one anymore.

The printing press clanked loudly on the other side of the room, and Xenophilius sprang to his feet with an excited look, sending the tray and the half-empty bowl toppling to the floor in a clatter of metal and broken china. Hermione hurried to vanish the soup that had splattered everything around the chair in a sinister blood red and repaired the shattered bowl with a flick of her wand. She looked up to see Xenophilius Lovegood crouched beside the print and sorting through piles of colorful pages he tried to clumsily bind together with some glue. Luna had taken away his wand… The thought Luna probably had the strongest, sanest mind of anyone she knew, despite living in a world that felt like a madhouse, hit Hermione once more.

"Goodbye, Mr. Lovegood," she said quietly, not expecting him to acknowledge her.

She picked up the tray with a sigh and headed for the spiraling staircase, pausing on the landing to glance up. A pit of darkness opened overhead, running up the tower to Luna's room and the attic beyond, where Malfoy had been locked up for a few days. Hermione gazed over her shoulder at Xenophilius Lovegood. Was there really a difference between them? What did it change that Malfoy was still able to form coherent thoughts? They were both adrift, stranded from a world that no longer existed, both clinging onto their own brand of foolish hope. Maybe it gave them a sense of safety, the illusory impression they had a hold on the last remaining scraps of their lives. Because, in the end, sanity all came down to those who were in control and those who had it no longer.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

The darkness squeezing and shattering her body was replaced with little more light when Hermione reappeared next to the sofa in her living-room. It didn't take her long to spot him. A brusque movement on the periphery of her vision drew her attention to the window behind the armchairs and that gave to the fire escape ladder. Her gaze rested on Malfoy as he straightened himself on the windowsill, having jolted upright from the resounding _crack_ of her apparating, the shudder having almost made him slide to the floor. He squinted at her for a moment, before leaning back against the wall, shifting his legs uncomfortably half-bent on the narrow windowsill and blinking away the drowsiness that still clouded his features. He must have been dozing off.

Hermione slowly unbuttoned her coat, casting a look outside the windows on her left. Grayish light was cutting through the stillness of the apartment that had grown dim, all in bluish hues. The sun was still struggling to stay afloat over the horizon beyond the canopy of clouds that had gathered within a couple of hours, but beneath it looked like the evening. The city was shrouded in gray mist that dampened and discolored what little light filtered through the low whorls.

Shrugging off her coat and hanging it on the back of the sofa, Hermione eyed Malfoy's silhouette, her lips tightening into a thin line; he had slumped back into the position he was sitting in before her arrival, his shoulder and his temple pressed against the window pane, his face blank and seemingly oblivious to the cold seeping through the glass. A heavy drop crashed loudly against the window, right over his cheekbone, but he only blinked drowsily as it divided into smaller droplets and slid past his face. The drop was soon followed by others, the sound like hundreds of invisible fingernails tapping on the rusty ladder outside.

Without a word, Hermione rounded the sofa and went to the kitchen, fetching a glass from a cabinet and filling it with water with a wave of her wand. She turned back to the living-room, surveying Malfoy's slouched form as she sipped. His pale eyelashes caught the remaining daylight, and she could see them droop as he watched the trickling raindrops. The sight was draining her of any sense of fear, disgust or pity she might have felt in the previous days, leaving behind only cold determination.

"What are you doing?" she asked, setting down her glass on the kitchen counter, her voice clear in the silence of the apartment.

Malfoy lifted his head, giving her a puzzled look that turned into a frown as she kept glaring at him, before averting his eyes and resuming his pointless gazing out the window.

"What are you doing?" repeated Hermione coldly, taking a few steps in his direction across the room.

The edge in her voice made Malfoy cast her a sideways glance despite his manifest resolve to ignore her. It was quite obvious he wasn't doing anything – something he had apparently decided to make a permanent activity – but her patience had reached its limits. Malfoy scowled at her with annoyance, opening his mouth, but Hermione didn't wait for him to snap back and whirled around, striding to her bedroom.

She kicked the door open and went straight for the wardrobe. The young woman rummaged through the boxes at its bottom, her jaw set, and fished a thick, gray coat from the depths of the wardrobe; it was worn out at the seams and still had mud stains on the hem. Hermione paused unwittingly, her bones locking as she tilted her face until the tip of her nose almost touched the lapels. The strong feline stench that had permeated it in the tent, mixed with the earthly scent of woods, was gone; she smelled nothing but old cardboard and the faint jasmine scent that coated her clothes. Had she expected it to retain the familiar smells for almost a year? There was no point in clinging to some old clothes like to sacred relics, no point in cowering from them either.

Hermione rose to her feet, pulling her wand from her pocket; Harry was a bit shorter than Malfoy was now, and some selfish, trivial part of her knew she couldn't bear the sight of him wearing Harry's old coat. She ran her wand along the seams, lengthening the sleeves and the hem, fixing the loose threads, vanishing the stains, and altering the color to black. She gave it one final look before slinging it over her arm and exiting the bedroom. Malfoy hadn't moved from his spot and only watched her guardedly as she stalked to him. She tossed the coat over the armchair between them and onto his lap, and he caught it instinctively. His gaze shifted between the coat and her face, a spark of alarm flashing in his dull eyes.

"Get up," she said coolly. "We are going for a little trip."

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

The compressing darkness dissolved, Granger's grip released on his elbow, and as cold air brutally rushed into his lungs, Draco found himself standing at the top of a set of worn stone steps overlooking a shabby, deserted square. Inky shadows pooled from the cluster of naked trees in its middle, dappled with the murky orange glare of the streetlamps. Shadows concealed most of the houses lining the small square, but what little he could see wasn't glorious. In front of the house on their right, a damp newspaper on top of a heap of garbage that lay on the pavement rustled in the wind.

He swayed a little as he recoiled from Granger, his legs still numb and a dull ache starting to spread in his lower back after hours of sitting on the windowsill. The leaden sense of weariness that had been pinning him to the spot throughout the day was gone, and he now felt a growing pressure tightening around his ribcage like an iron band. He slowly turned to Granger, exposing the back of his neck over the collar of the coat she had given him to the icy wind. The untamed mass of her curls was hanging around her shoulders, and the light of the nearest lamppost gave her face a sickly look. She watched him silently with that unfathomable stare that had set his instincts to hiss in panic, before tilting her head to the door behind them.

"Welcome to number 12, Grimmauld place," she said quietly.

He barely had time to register the dull glint on the silver numbers, the peeling paint, and the knocker in the form of a twisted serpent that Granger motioned her wand at the grimy door and it silently swung on its hinges. It yawned on a pit of blackness and the stench of rot hit his nose, making him step back instinctively, but Granger prodded his back unceremoniously and he was forced to take a few steps inside the house. The door shut behind them, cutting out all light and locking them in like in a tomb. Then, the tip of Granger's wand lit up, bathing their immediate surroundings in a bluish glow.

If there had ever been a perfect place to commit murder and hide the body, it had to be it. In the circle of light created by Granger's wand, he could only discern musty wallpaper, bubbles swelling where mold grew beneath it, and the threadbare carpet they stood on. But as Granger brushed past him and strode down the hallway, a row of old gas lamps sputtered to life overhead – adding only a questionable amount of light to her wand – and more details came in sight. He followed her despite the sense of foreboding twisting his stomach, taking in the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, the clearer patches on the walls where paintings must have been once, and the serpent-shaped candelabra on a spindly table. They passed a dusty troll-leg umbrella stand and two doorways gaping on pitch darkness, before arriving at the foot of a grand staircase at the end of the hallway. He could have sworn the musty canvas on their right sighed as Granger tiptoed past it.

She seemed to know where she was going. He trailed behind her even as cold sweat broke along his spine and the murmur of something dark, a sensation he knew only too well, crept along his bones. They didn't have to climb for long. Granger halted on the first landing, casting a glance over her shoulder to make sure he was following her. Her eyes narrowed as they slid over his features and he saw her smirk briefly in the light of her wand. She beckoned him through a wide doorway and flicked her wand, lighting two large chandeliers and revealing an enormous drawing room.

The stench of rot wasn't as stifling there. Draco's gaze darted to the corners, still hidden in the shadows, and slid over the ornate furniture and the large fireplace. The room would have been grand if not for the cobwebs and the dust covering everything. He stopped stiffly in the middle of the room, every muscle in his body taut, and turned his gaze to Granger, who was standing a few paces behind by a huge sofa. She was watching him with her head cocked to the side, and he clenched his jaw to keep himself from asking how exactly she had decided to get rid of him.

"Not up to your standards, Malfoy?" she said sweetly.

"What is it? Your secondary residence?" he drawled, sticking his hands into his pockets and schooling his features into an impassible mask.

Granger only smirked and reached into an inner pocket of her coat. She retrieved something small he failed to recognize before she stepped into the circle of flickering light under the chandelier and held it out in his direction. The faint sputtering of the chandeliers, the creaking and murmurs of the dark house beyond the room, even the sound of his own breathing, all vanished as though his head had been pushed underwater as he stared at the long, thin piece of pale wood Granger was handing him, handle first.

"Fir wood and unicorn hair," said Granger quietly. "The Ministry closely monitors any new wand purchases and spare wands are prohibited, but Mr. Ollivander has a debt worth far more than a wand…"

He couldn't move. Granger's words didn't have any meaning. He looked up at her blankly.

"Though I doubt he would have been so willing to honor his debt if he knew who the wand was for," she added casually.

She held it up a bit higher, and as he still didn't move, her features hardened.

"Take the wand, Malfoy," she said coolly.

Her hard voice pierced the stupor that pinned him to the spot, and he exhaled. Something buzzed and knocked against the light bulbs of the chandelier. Probably a big moth. The rush of blood that had deafened him quieted as quickly as it had started, leaving only the unfeeling void in its wake. One breath, another, a step back. His spine locked as he silently stared down at Granger. Whatever game she was playing – maybe giving him a chance for a fair fight before ending him – he couldn't. No.

"Take. The. Wand."

Her lips tightened into a thin line and she stalked to him, grabbing his wrist and thrusting the wand into his right hand. He didn't react when her cold fingers forcefully closed his around the handle. Granger strode away, took off her coat with deliberate movements and tossed it across the sofa, raising a cloud of dust. When she turned to face him again, her own wand was pointed at his chest.

"You are going to get a grip, Malfoy," she said with deadly calm. "You are going to take that wand and prove me there is still something left of you, that you are not just a useless leech. Raise the bloody wand, Malfoy."

"No."

The word left his chest in a ragged puff of air. He opened his fingers and the wand clattered across the surface of the little table next to him. Next thing he knew, he was ducking to the moth-eaten carpet as the glass-fronted cabinet behind him exploded in a shower of glass splinters. One arm instinctively raised over his head, he gaped at Granger with wide eyes.

"If you are worried about the owner," she said in a saccharine voice as he unsteadily rose from the floor, "believe me, he won't mind. Pick up the wand, now."

"Fuck you, Granger," he snarled, trying to regain his composure as he dusted his trousers. "I'm not interested in –"

A broken gas lamp was blasted off the far wall of the room. Draco leaped to the side, his head whipping between the debris littering the floor and Granger's impassible face.

"My next target will be your skull," she commented lightly. "Take that wand, Malfoy. Or is animating little birds the only thing you are capable of now?"

Draco felt his heart skip a beat: she knew. Granger's eyes flashed.

"Can you even call yourself a wizard anymore?"

No, he couldn't. He didn't even feel any anger at the irony of the fact that she, of all people, was throwing it at his face. The hollow, festering void inside of him had sucked out everything.

"What the fuck do you want from me, Granger?" he spat. "If I disgust you so much, why the fuck can't you leave me alone?"

"You know," said Granger as she started to pace the worn carpet, her gaze trained on him, "Harry and I used to talk about you after our sixth year. We talked about you a lot. He seemed to think that everything you've been doing was to protect your family, out of some sense of love and loyalty we didn't know you possessed. I didn't agree." She stopped and tilted her head to the side with a vicious smile. "See, I've always thought you were just a coward."

Her smile grew wider and it took him a moment to realize that his breath was coming out in hissing pants, his fists balled at his sides. He clamped his teeth together, feeling all the muscles in his face strain; he wouldn't snap at her piss-poor attempt to get a rise out of him.

"And what did Weasley have to say about it?" he sneered coldly.

He braced himself for the blow that was to be aimed at his skull but only a bit of color drained from Granger's cheeks.

"He tended to agree with me," she said quietly, her smile now emotionless and frozen. "But tell me, Malfoy, which was it? What made you plot, and murder, and grovel at Voldemort's feet? A shred of humanity we were unaware of… or your crapping yourself? What is it, Malfoy? Shame riding you a bit hard?"

She was taunting him, riling him up… and he knew she had succeeded when he saw the spark of triumph in her eyes, when he realized that the snarl he was hearing was tearing itself out of his throat and he was lunging for the wand she had given him. She gave him two long seconds to snatch it up and call for his buried fighting instincts. She merely raised her eyebrows as his curse missed her by three inches, and he was sure that even if he had succeeded to touch her, the results would have been feeble. His brain felt addled, his body seemed to have forgotten how to reach for his power. It was weakly stirring somewhere at the bottom of that dark void, not even trying to claw its way to the surface. What once had been as natural as breathing now felt like blindly wading through mud.

"Oh, Malfoy…" sighed Granger.

Her next words were almost drowned out by the clanging and screeching of the grand piano being hit by her spell. Draco had again dropped to the floor to avoid it and was scrambling to his feet.

"… I'm going to hex you within an inch of your life if that's what it takes to wake you up."

He ran.

Granger didn't react as he bolted past her, successfully emerging onto the stairs landing with the intent to reach the ground floor: surely, she wouldn't dare to hex him if he got out onto the Muggle street. With a loud _crack,_ Granger materialized right before him, cutting his way off. She had the nerve to obnoxiously pick at her nails as he veered sharply to the left to hurtle up the stairs, taking them two at a time, the gas lamps lighting up one after the other, as another curse knocked off a hideous house elf head mere inches above his own. He almost slammed into the rotting wallpaper as he took a pinpoint turn to the next flight of stairs.

"Use the bloody wand!" yelled Granger, the sound of her footsteps now pounding in his wake.

He fired a Stupefying Charm over his shoulder, which – from the sound of it – didn't hit Granger but the wall.

"That's all you've got?" jeered Granger.

 _Fucking bitch, fucking bitch, fucking bitch…_ His muscles shrieked in protest at the sudden effort after weeks of inactivity. He tripped over the top step as he reached the landing of the second floor, regaining his balance in extremis, and leaped through the nearest door – a ransacked bedroom, as grim as the rest of the house. He skidded to a halt, running a puzzled look over the Slytherin memorabilia scattered about the place, before realizing he had stupidly trapped himself as Granger's wild hair flashed at the periphery of his vision. He noticed the door leading to the adjacent room just in time and darted to it, blindly casting a nasty Stinging Hex and praying the door didn't open on a bathroom.

It didn't, and Granger's hiss behind him indicated he had finally aimed right, though she had managed to partly shield herself. He crossed a vast study shrouded in darkness, heading back to the stairs. He didn't wait for the resounding _crack_ to know that Granger had once again cut his way out and raced higher up the staircase. She was set on running him ragged, and it occurred to him that if he kept climbing, he was sooner or later going to end up cornered at the top of the house.

"You know what you look like?" sounded Granger's slightly winded voice a few steps below. "Like a twitchy, scuttling ferret!"

He stopped dead, whirling around. _A low, hissing voice slithered at the back of his mind… Crucio…_

" _Impedimenta!_ "

Granger toppled over, the steps creaking loudly as she bumped against them in her fall, landing on her backside at the bottom of the stairs with a cry of pain. She looked up at him with a mix of shock and somehow gleeful surprise written over her features. Draco stood frozen even as she was already pushing herself to her feet, way faster than the hex should have allowed her. His heart was pounding in his throat, the realization of the curse he had been about to cast crashing down on him and twisting his guts.

" _Flipendo!_ "

He was propelled backward, his spine slamming against the stone beneath the moldy wallpaper, and slid down the wall, stars dancing before his eyes, all breath knocked out of him. _Crucio…_ He could still feel the unvoiced word coating his tongue, the dark, vicious tingling in his fingertips when he had raised the wand… He wanted to vomit…

"Finally fighting back, are we?"

Granger's voice drew nearer through the ringing in his ears. The effort felt like a leap over an abyss… Darkness swallowed him.

Draco crumbled onto the floor, his hands digging into the moth-eaten carpet, the light of the chandeliers overhead – brighter than the one of the gas lamps – briefly blinding him as the crushing black void turned into the dusty drawing-room of the first floor. It was a miracle he hadn't splinched himself. He staggered to his feet, ignoring Granger's snarky voice as she shouted something from the upper floors. He dragged himself across the room, leaving the circle of dull light, and slumped in the shadows against the far wall, breathing hard. He closed his eyes, leaning the back of his head against the surprisingly soft wall. Granger's footsteps were already pounding down the stairs, pausing as she looked for him in various rooms.

He didn't care if she carried out her threats and hexed him into oblivion. The weight of the wand still clasped in his cold hand was almost unbearable, but somehow he couldn't let go of it. Granger had made her point. The moment his fingers had closed around it, the realization of the weak, empty, pathetic creature he had let himself become had hit him more forcefully than ever before. This wand… This new, foreign wand he couldn't even properly yield felt like recovering a part of himself he had let shrivel and waste away. _Crucio…_ And what did _that_ part make him? That stained, twisted part that had pounced on his reawakening magic like a beast… The wand clattered on the floorboards at his feet.

"Playing hide and seek?" chanted Granger a moment later, striding into the drawing-room, her impossible hair bouncing on her shoulders.

She spotted him in an instant and leveled her wand at him with a smirk.

"Found you."

Draco only glared at her, a muscle twitching in his cheek, his back pressed into the wall as he refused to indulge further in her little game. Granger's gaze went to the wand at his feet, then to his fists clenched at his sides. She slowly lowered her wand, her smirk sliding off her face and turning into something that looked like grim disappointment.

"What's your problem, Malfoy?" she sighed quietly.

It was a genuine question, and as she looked him over her expression became disgustingly akin to sympathy... No. To pity. He snarled.

"Sod off, Granger."

He pushed off the wall and turned his back to her, ignoring her wand, ignoring his instincts. His foot kicked the fir wand that went rolling into the shadows.

"Malfoy," snapped Granger, her angry footsteps drawing nearer behind him.

He gritted his teeth, bracing a hand against the reeking tapestry that covered the wall… and froze. Staring up at him from the dusty thread was a faded but unmistakably familiar face. Haughtily half-closed blue eyes, sharp cheekbones – just like his own – framed with waves of blond hair… All air left his chest with a whoosh and everything inside him went numb and taut. The light shifted somewhere on his right as Granger's figure stopped beside him. She was saying something, the words lost in the thundering of blood in his ears… His hand slid across the wall – sticky, invisible cobwebs catching on his fingertips with fluffs of dust – to another familiar face… The branches slithered to each other and merged into a new one… A new one with his own face at the end.

"Malfoy…"

Granger's voice was drifting from afar through the howling in his ears. His guts were coiled so tight it almost made him bend over in pain. A hand entered his peripheral field of vision, tentatively reaching for his arm…

"Draco…"

He recoiled, his feet moving on instinct.

"Whose house is this?"

His voice was a breathless rasp. As the storm inside his ears suddenly stopped, he thought that Granger's breathing might have been a bit uneven.

"It was the Black family home," she said quietly after a moment. "Harry's godfather lived here… Sirius Black. He let the Order of the Phoenix use the place as headquarters. I thought you knew after…"

She kept saying something but he had already turned his back to her, striding out of the room without listening to her blabbing. His insides had uncoiled at last and were plummeting, plummeting in freefall as he stormed past the muttering canvas at the foot of the stairs, along the dim hallway with its sputtering gas lamps, and to the crackled front door… Granger's voice was calling somewhere behind him. He threw the heavy door open with such force it banged against the wall, musty particles raining from the ceiling. The cold, damp air gushed inside and hit him like a wave as he stumbled to a halt on the threshold, gripping the doorframe. Icy drops hit his face, the steady pitter-patter of the rain replacing the whispering silence of the house. Draco closed his eyes, sliding down the side of the wall until he sat on the wet stone step. His breath was escaping him in hoarse gasps, and he wrapped his hands around his knees to stop them from shaking with the blinding rage that coursed through him.

 _Shame riding you a bit hard, Malfoy?_

Would Granger stop him if he just went down these steps and disappeared? And then what? He could walk away from this house haunted with his mother's face, from Granger's contempt and pity, but he was sure that wherever he would go that fear, and shame, and rage that had sparked to life inside this godforsaken place would be hounding him until his last breath. He gazed at the rivulets trickling between the cobblestones, his breathing quieting, slowing down, just as he sensed Granger's presence behind him. She stopped on the threshold, so close that her leg was almost touching his hunched back.

"Tell me something," she said quietly.

A lone car turned the corner across the square, glittering like a giant black beetle as it slid past the cluster of trees and disappeared down another street.

"I don't know where she is."

His voice was unnervingly steady now, detached. Maybe that was what happened when one realized they had touched bottom and that from now on the only two alternatives were either stay on the ground and die or claw your way up. Granger shifted beside him, squatting down. He stared at the wand she had deposited on the step next to him.

"I can tell you," she said calmly.

His gaze snapped up to her. She closed the door of the house, the locks clicking into place.

"I can go there and show you. Tomorrow even," she continued without looking at him. "But if you want to come along, you'll have to apparate yourself."

Next moment, she had vanished from the stoop with a loud _crack_ , leaving him alone on the cold stone step, the wind blowing around the square and Muggle cars rumbling in the distance. Stunned, Draco stared at the spot where she had been standing seconds before, then at the wand on the ground next to him. Slowly, his fingers wrapped around the handle and he heavily pushed himself to his feet.

Darkness squeezed and tore at him, and when light hit his eyes again – warm, bright light that chased away the night beyond the windows – Granger was facing him, her coat still hanging from her arm as she stood still in the middle of the living room. Her gaze met his, and she cocked her head slightly, loosing a small sigh.

"Hello," she said softly, the corners of her lips twitching upwards. "Welcome back to the living."


	12. Hymn to the living

**Chapter 12**

 **Hymn to the living**

The pain woke him up. Draco opened his eyes, groaning at the sharp ache that had shot up his spine from his bruised coccyx when he had shifted onto his back in his sleep. Beams of pallid sunlight leached between the curtains into the room, slicing the gloom in half. Draco pushed himself up with a scowl and padded to the adjoining bathroom, running a hand over the rough skin of his chin. As he pulled off the t-shirt and cotton pants he was wearing, the mirror over the bathroom sink gave him a glimpse of the ominous dark patch spreading around his tailbone, where it had collided with the wall the previous evening. Similar bluish blotches were blooming over his shoulder blades, on either side of the long jagged scar that ran along his spine. The scorching hot shower offered little relief, and he was still gritting his teeth against the dull pain when he stepped into the sunlit living-room, wearing a fresh set of clothes and the skin of the lower half of his face now smooth.

Granger was nowhere to be seen, and the air in the apartment had the lifeless stillness of empty places. He crossed the room to the open kitchen, where a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ was splayed on the countertop with a scrap of paper next to it, informing him that Granger and the boy had left for St Mungo's. He spared it a glance before heading for the fridge – Granger not bothering to leave him a breakfast tray anymore – and fishing two apples from the vegetable compartment. His gaze lingered on the kettle and the can of ground coffee Granger had left on the stove, but something in the back of his mind told him he didn't want the fog clouding his thoughts to clear yet. Instead, he snatched _The Prophet_ from the counter as he went and flung himself into his favorite armchair, biting into one of the cold apples.

As he propped his feet up on the coffee table a small object clattered across the surface. He paused, his eyes following the movement as it rolled almost to the other edge of the low-lying table. _Welcome back to the living…_ Something icy churned at the pit of his stomach, but he shoved it down and unfolded _The Daily Prophet_ with a shake, blocking from view the fir wand he had left behind the previous evening and the weight of the freedom it represented. Freedom to regain that part of himself he had let shrivel, to be something other than a hunted down, defenseless creature, to fight or to flee if he wanted to… He wasn't quite sure it wasn't somehow more unbearable than the freedom from such choices he had had until now.

Draco let his gaze wander unseeingly through the pages, meaningless words etching into his mind and fading. _Ex-conductor of the Knight Bus Stanley Shunpike thrown out of the new emergency shelter… Banned books burned in Bristol… St Mungo's staff shortage following Ministry requisition… Dementor sightings around mainland detention facility…_ He flipped through the pages absentmindedly, until a large photograph set in the middle of a double page caught his eye and made him pause in mid-gesture.

Chief Warlock Fawley was shaking hands with an American representative in a pinstripe three-piece suit and with oily black hair so thoroughly slicked back it reflected the light of the candles floating before the Memorial Wall in the background. The tide of Ministry employees bustled at the edges of the photograph, beyond the perimeter cleared for the official picture but still visible enough to create a sense of business and importance. But it wasn't the two wizards – their faces set in an identical emotionless rictus – that had attracted his gaze. He held _The Prophet_ up to have a closer look at the small figure barely visible in the crowd of Ministry workers. Granger was crouching down on the polished floorboards of the Atrium, blowing a strand of unruly hair out of her face as she hurriedly gathered the papers scattered at her feet and that had obviously slipped from her arms. She looked so harassed she didn't even seem aware of the Chief Warlock having his picture taken a few steps away from her.

Draco gazed at the photograph for another moment, before slowly closing the newspaper. He was about to toss it away on the coffee table when something else made him freeze: glaring back at him from the narrow columns of names stretching on the last page of _The Prophet…_

 _Draco Malfoy, section A_

His name and the promise of a swift, predictable, glorified sentence. The icy shard he had shoved down earlier speared his gut. His mind threatened to stray to the part that had finally broken his resolve the previous night and made him down the Sleeping Draught that had been waiting for weeks on the bathroom sink. If only to stop thinking of Granger's promise… _I can go there and show you. Tomorrow even._ But she wasn't there, and the note on the kitchen counter made no mention of when she was planning to return. The newspaper landed on the coffee table with a soft rustle; his name, lost in the columns on the back page, was still imprinted on his retina as though it had been burnt there. Nineteen letters among the thousands on the List: that was all he was now, all that would be left of him, of their line...

He snatched at random one of the books Granger had left on the table – and that turned out being a seventh grade _Guide to Advanced Transfiguration –_ and absently flipped through the pages. A piece of parchment covered in lengthy formulae poked from the top of the book, marking what looked like a mind-numbingly difficult chapter on human Transfiguration. Draco cast a look at the scrolls littering the coffee table amidst several other thick volumes, including an essay that hung to the floor and was kept from falling completely by a nearly empty ink bottle and a battered quill. One week overdue from what he could see of the date scribbled in red ink in the top corner of the parchment. _Light had still been filtering through the crack under the bedroom door when he had gotten up from his tossing and turning at past two in the morning to take the Sleeping Draught…_

He stared at the heavy textbook open in his lap, at the equations and diagrams he had never learned. Of course Granger was still planning to graduate. But the knowledge he had been meant to possess as well looked like gibberish, ridiculously unattainable for the feeble scraps of power it took him all of his strength to summon. He flipped back to the first chapter of the book and strained to pull hazy strips of notions from the depths of his memory as he read. The little attention he had been paying to his classes during the sixth year didn't help. Picking up the fir wand from the table, he leaned back in his armchair and began plowing his way through the workings of the formula to conjure large objects.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

"Don't sit on the cold ground, Nat," called Hermione, straightening up where she sat on the edge of the bench to look over the heads of the children running around.

Nathaniel obediently lifted himself off the stone tiles and shifted into a crouched position as he traced sunflowers with bright yellow chalk on the ground around him. He had chosen the only empty spot at the foot of a plane tree and was carefully ignoring the shrieks and laughter buzzing throughout the inner courtyard of the Children's Home. Hermione's gaze traveled from his hunched shoulders and downcast eyes to the gangly little girl with straw-colored pigtails sitting across from him under another tree.

She was a couple of years younger than Nathaniel and sat smugly in a circle of giggling cronies: a queen holding court. In the watery sunlight dappling the tiled ground before her, a heap of dead leaves and twigs was swirling on a phantom wind. Hermione pursed her lips: the girl's eyes kept purposefully flickering to Nathaniel with a gleefully mean look. Finally noticing Hermione's cold stare, she innocently turned to one of her friends, the leaves and twigs scattering across the ground. Hermione leaned back against the bench and crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes still narrowed in the girl's direction.

"They moved Mrs. Caldwell to the Ameles ward," she said quietly to Luna, who sat next to her, watching the children dreamily, the beads woven into her hair twinkling in the sunlight.

"Did you go visit her?" asked Luna in an equally quiet voice, though hers was gentle rather than clipped.

Hermione saw her tilt her head and lean closer out of the corner of her eye but couldn't bring herself to look at her. Instead, she let her gaze wander over the playing children and drew her arms closer around herself, jerking her head no once, almost as though she was trying to shake off the thought.

"I don't know what to tell him," she admitted at last, her voice tight, a corner of her mouth sagging spasmodically as her eyes flickered to Nathaniel's crouching form.

Next to her, Luna moved, drawing her legs up onto the bench and folding them underneath herself. Hermione thought she wasn't going to answer, but then she said in the same serene voice:

"Dad asked about Mom this morning. He's been doing it sometimes before. When he was lost in his projects or very happy about something… He's doing it more often now."

Hermione turned to her, her eyes wide, but Luna was still watching the children with a faraway look, her face tilted up toward the sunlight and her silvery eyes half-closed.

"What do you tell him?" whispered Hermione.

"That she went out," smiled Luna softly, "And will come back soon. He forgets after some time anyway."

Hermione averted her gaze, trying to erase the dismay from her features, and considered the chalk flowerbed growing around Nathaniel.

"I'm going to Arnos Vale today," she said flatly after a while.

Luna huffed a small sigh – bracing or approving, she couldn't tell – and rose to her feet, readying to call the end of recess. She however turned to Hermione a somewhat sad smile before striding away with a bounce in her step:

"It's about time, don't you think?"

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

Hermione's breath was briefly knocked out of her and she winced against the sunlight as she materialized at the crest of a wind-beaten hill. After the homely warmth of the Children's Home she had just left, the cold jabbed the skin of her neck like dozens of needles, and her ears, unprotected by her curls she had pulled into a knot at the top of her head, went numb almost immediately. The young woman raised a hand over her eyes, squinting at the valley unfurling before her.

Low, round-bellied clouds drifted over the soft hills, casting deep shadows on the woods and rolling grounds below. Tufts of trees delimited slanting fields, where sheep wandered lazily from one patch of sunlight to the other, pressed close together to protect themselves from the cold. Beyond, she could see the steep arch gables of Winchcombe nestled in the dip of the valley, the prow of St Peter's Church towering over the ancient town. Hermione stood still for a moment, admiring the scenery, before turning her back to the inhabited area and starting down the other side of the hill.

A trickle of white smoke rose straight into the bright sky from the prominent chimney of a small Tudor cottage set in fair stone and that stood between the hills, shielded on all sides from the wind. From her high vantage point, Hermione glimpsed the vegetable garden and the herb greenhouse behind it before they disappeared from view as she neared the foothill. She rounded a pond on her path to the arched doorway – the frozen mud discolored and crackled – and paused at the stoop, a swath of screaming yellow along the wall catching her eye. The flowers looked almost insolent against the shriveled grass around the house, flattened to the ground by the heavy frost. Hermione, however, suspected that even the famous early blooming daffodils of Gloucestershire had needed a touch of magic to grow in this particularly dire winter.

Tearing her gaze away from the splash of color, Hermione ascended the few front steps of the cottage and reached for the bronze knocker on the massive wooden door. She was increasingly aware of the pressure inside her lungs as she held her breath and waited. The locks clicked like tiny metallic insects scuttling on the other side of the panel, and the door silently swung on its hinges. Hermione flushed, aware that for a fleeting second the pang of panic she felt inside had transpired on her frozen features as she took in the woman in the doorway. She had never managed to fully overcome it. But Andromeda simply stepped aside and waited patiently with a calm, somewhat distant smile playing on her lips until Hermione loosed a breath and swept past her.

The young woman shrugged off her coat as Mrs. Tonks shut the door behind her and made a few hesitant steps down the tidy hallway, so different from the Burrow with its still-life oil paintings on the bare stone walls and chiseled stained glass windows that gave to the inner rooms. Indistinct voices were drifting from the living room at the far end, and Hermione turned to Andromeda with an apologetic look.

"If it's not the right time…" she started.

But Andromeda waved her off, pulling her velvet robes closer around herself and beckoning Hermione down the hall. The colors of the stained glass double doors were faded from years of morning sunlight streaming right through them from the eastern windows of the living room and that gave on a dip between the hills. Hermione slipped inside in Andromeda's wake, immediately tripping on a painted wooden block discarded on the woven carpet. Here too the walls were adorned with paintings, and a kernel of the sun seemed to have entered the house in the form of a bouquet of daffodils that rose from a blown glass vase on the harpsichord beneath the largest window. The sunrays pooling in bounced off the petals and the flowers seemed to radiate their own light. Sitting in the middle of a pile of hardwood cubes similar to the one she had tripped over, his small back turned to the double doors, a dark-haired toddler was playing with what looked like a large spinning top. Teddy's locks were the exact shade of chestnut brown Andromeda's were, pushing the disturbing resemblance to the gray streaks over his temples.

Hermione glanced around the rest of the room, searching for the source of the diffuse voices she could hear from the hallway and tracking it down to the old television set – the kind that piled up in Mr. Weasley's barn – that stood on a corner of the chimney mantelpiece. It wasn't bigger than a shoebox, its antennas extending almost to the ceiling, and so ancient and unhinged by the environing magical interferences that Hermione could barely make out the figures on the flickering black and white screen. Her gaze slid to the empty upholstered armchair in the far corner of the room and lingered on Ted Tonks' hat that lay on its back – not a speckle of dust on the wool felt material, the pheasant feather stuck in the velvet ribbon around its base catching the sunlight – before coming back to the useless, sputtering television set. Maybe Malfoy wasn't the only one who couldn't stand the silence…

Tearing her gaze away from the static on the screen, Hermione stepped over Teddy's toys and squatted down next to him. He babbled happily as she planted a soft kiss on top of his head, still focused on the colorful, glittering top spinning on the carpet between his chubby little feet.

"What have you got here, buddy?" smiled Hermione, tracing small circles across his fleece-covered back.

Her eyes followed the faint beams of light that came from the heart of the spinning top: what she had initially thought to be flecks of sunlight chasing each other on the walls were in fact animal shapes molded in light and created by whatever enchantment was on the toy.

"An early birthday gift from his godfather," sounded Andromeda voice behind her.

The words were like a punch to her stomach. Hermione turned to the woman that stood a few paces away, considering Teddy with a tired kind of sadness.

"I think he may have forgotten the real date. Or maybe he wanted to be sure it got here in time."

Hermione watched the spinning top unseeingly, her insides suddenly in knots. In the periphery of her vision, Andromeda shrugged her shoulders briskly, like shaking off some thought that threatened to overwhelm her.

"Some tea, Hermione?" she asked, heading to the adjoining kitchen.

"Yes… Thank you…" muttered Hermione a few moments late, slowly rising to her feet.

The scents of fresh rosemary and thyme filled the vast, terracotta-tiled kitchen, wafting from the numerous clay pots on the windowsills. Teddy's colorful bowls and baby bottles were drying on the yellowed pewter sink. Hermione settled at the wood and tile kitchen table while Andromeda put the cast-iron teapot on the stove and took a tea set from the cabinets. She seemed eager to busy her hands instead of doing things by way of magic. She paused, noticing Hermione toying glumly with a teaspoon.

"Do not blame the boy for leaving."

Hermione flinched and lifted her gaze at Andromeda's suddenly harsh voice. Hardness made her features look more than ever like her elder sister's, and Hermione couldn't help her body from recoiling into the back of her chair. Andromeda sighed, turning back to the hissing teapot.

"He is dead here," she continued in a softer voice. "We all are. But he… He died when he fought, and he died a second time when everything he fought for was twisted and thrown to the dogs."

With another sigh, Andromeda brought the teapot to the table and poured the boiling water into the china teacups, before suddenly freezing in mid-gesture.

"Mrs. Tonks?" asked Hermione.

Andromeda's eyes had gone vacant, her face blank as she watched the steaming cups.

"Mrs. Tonks, the tea leaves…" offered Hermione tentatively.

Andromeda blinked and frowned.

"I keep forgetting…" she muttered haggardly. "Everything is getting blurred…" She looked at Hermione, her gaze regaining some of its sharpness. "You came to ask about the Department of Mysteries," she said calmly.

Hermione nodded, feeling a bit ashamed of the selfish reason of her already rare visit. Andromeda put a tray of biscuits on the table and reached for a tin box on the kitchen worktop.

"Did you talk to Kingsley?" she asked, her eyes on the floral pattern on the box.

"Yes… I was wondering whether… whether you remembered something else over the past week."

Andromeda put the box of tea leaves down and shook her head, her long nails clicking on the metallic lid as she absentmindedly drummed her fingers on it.

"I can't tell you anything more than I told Kingsley," she said quietly. "They wanted to know if I could… if I could hear them. As I'm their only surviving family. I couldn't... I could only hear T-Ted and…"

She jerked her head away sharply, her features taut, and gripped the edge of the kitchen worktop. Hermione bit the inside of her cheeks until she could tell herself that the burning in her own eyes was due to the blood she now tasted on her tongue. The half of Andromeda's face she could still see suddenly contorted in loathing, and Hermione quickly averted her gaze from the chilling resemblance, instead looking at Teddy playing through the open doorway.

"Did you know – Did you know Lucius only died last month?" Andromeda hissed the name with venom, shaking her head. "Only a few weeks away from his trial, if they hadn't postponed it. What Hell did he send Cissy to…"

For a moment, the only sounds were Teddy's delighted babbling and the distorted music coming from the television in the living room.

"Do not trust him," said Andromeda abruptly.

Hermione slowly turned to her; she had regained her composure and was staring her down with her lips pursed into a thin line.

"Do not trust Kingsley," repeated Andromeda at her questioning look.

Hermione frowned in confusion.

"Why?"

Andromeda smiled bitterly.

"Our cause is dead, and the ties that bound us while we fought for it as well. Our world is sinking. Why would they want it to recover when the time has come for wolves to feast on its carcass? Kingsley is a wolf, girl. Has always been. Do not doubt that."

Hermione stared at her mutely as she moved back to the table and vanished the clear water from the teacups.

"You asked him about Draco," Hermione said quietly after a moment.

Andromeda straightened, her spine locking in that haughty, aristocratic manner she had never lost.

"My sister killed my daughter – her niece," she said tightly, her knuckles white as she gripped the handle of the teapot and flicked her wand at it to make it boil again. "I will not do the same to Cissy's son. And leaving him to the mercy of fate is exactly what it would be."

She filled the cups without another word and whirled around in a swish of robes, striding into the living room to check on Teddy. Hermione lowered her gaze, chewing on the inside of her lower lip, and pulled a cup toward her, looking glumly into the swirling water. Andromeda had again forgotten the tea leaves.

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

It had taken him nearly four hours before he was able to cast a satisfying enough spell to non-verbally conjure Granger's dresser from the bedroom without it falling into rubble. He was perusing Miranda Goshawk's _Standard Book of Spells_ when Granger materialized in the middle of the room with a loud _crack_. She looked windswept as though she had just had a long walk outside, her cheeks rosy and a few curls and pins escaping from the knot she had wrung at the back of her head. Her gaze immediately slid to the book in his lap and the wand on the coffee table. He raised a brow at her, cocking his head, as her lips tightened into a thin line when she noticed the dog-eared pages, but she didn't say anything and only rounded the sofa, unbuttoning her coat with one hand. As she did so a bright flash of yellow caught his eye, standing out vividly against the blue-gray of her coat. His eyes were still fixed upon the wreath of narcissus, his ribcage suddenly feeling too tight for his lungs, when she carefully deposited the flowers on the kitchen counter and shrugged off her coat, tossing it across the sofa.

"You've been practicing?"

He tore his gaze away from the splash of yellow blooming on the countertop and snapped his eyes to Granger as she strode into the kitchen, watching him out of the corner of her eye. Her figure disappeared behind the counter as she squatted down before the fridge, and he was suddenly reminded of his growling stomach. He closed the book, pushing himself heavily out of the armchair, and dragged his feet to the kitchen counter while Granger rummaged through the food. She emerged a moment later, a plate of cheese and a pack of ham in one hand and clutching a bag of lettuce and several tomatoes to her chest with the other. She started slightly at his sudden proximity, before kicking the fridge shut, putting the plate and the ham on the table and walking over to the sink to wash the vegetables.

"I have to pick up Nat from St Mungo's at four," she said over the splashing of water. "I thought we could make the lunch quick and go…" Granger trailed off and glanced over her shoulder, her eyes darting to him and then to the flowers on the counter.

Draco felt his stomach hollow out. He stared back at her dumbly, unable to utter a word and not quite believing that patch of screaming yellow now burning in the periphery of his vision despite her promise of the previous day.

"It doesn't have to be today," she frowned, wiping her hands on the checkered towel and bringing the bowl of vegetables to the table.

"No!" he croaked out and gritted his teeth. Granger looked up at him warily. He cleared his throat, rounding the counter and turning his back to her as he crossed the kitchen. "Today… Today is good," he rasped out, reaching for two plates in a wall-mounted cupboard.

He stiffly set the plates next to her and looked at her just the time to see her nod. He settled across the table as she cut the tomatoes, the silence stretching out as she accioed a pack of sliced bread and piled the various ingredients. He watched her fingers dance as she fixed herself a sandwich and then proceeded to his plate, leaving out the ham. Her hands paused suddenly, and he heard her suck in a hesitant breath.

"What would happen if you eat… meat?" she asked tightly.

Draco slowly leveled his gaze at her. Granger was looking at him with mingled apprehension and curiosity and bit her lip when his eyes met hers.

"Nothing," he said calmly, watching with a grim sense of satisfaction as faint color flared on Granger's cheeks.

He held her wary stare, silently daring her to voice the question he knew was burning on the tip of her tongue and refusing to offer her the answer.

"So why – ?"

He let her fret for a few more seconds before breaking eye contact.

"Because it disgusts me," he replied blankly, pulling his plate toward him across the table.

"Oh," mumbled Granger, lowering herself into a chair and picking up her own sandwich.

He finished his meal before her and was already wearing his shoes and the coat she had given him when she cleared away the table and put the dishes into the sink. Granger slowly walked over to where he sat on the edge of the sofa, his elbows braced on his knees, unwittingly flexing his hands as he stared at the carpet. He raised his head as she perched on a corner of the coffee table and handed him a piece of crumpled paper. It was an old clipping from _The Daily Prophet_ , a black and white moving photograph with the camera circling what appeared to be a high, derelict gothic tomb surrounded by a tangle of weeds – the Apparition point of a Wizarding cemetery.

While some wizards preferred to be buried in the Muggle cemeteries closest to where they lived, the post-mortem manifestations of residual magic – which included cases of haunting – pushed the Ministry to encourage the Wizarding community to choose exclusively Wizarding cemeteries, protected from Muggle eyes by a latticework of spells. They were usually portions of major Muggle burial grounds that appeared ancient and decrepit to them. A series of photographs similar to the one before him has been featured in _The Prophet_ throughout the first month after the final battle to show the areas safe for Apparition. There were fourteen in all, one for every district of the territory, even though most of the dead have been buried at the Glasgow Necropolis, closest to Hogwarts.

Draco gazed at the sinister photograph. He hadn't paid them any attention in his stolen copies of _The_ _Prophet_ : there was only one he knew and needed. But it wasn't this one.

"Where?" he asked tonelessly.

"Arnos Vale, Bristol," answered Granger in a quiet voice.

Bristol… Even though Bristol was closer, Wiltshire – the Manor – was part of the London district, the family crypt being in Highgate. He looked up at her coldly.

"Why?"

Granger clasped her hands between her knees and lowered her head, and it took him all of his willpower not to shake her out of her pitying stance.

"The Bristol district has the lowest Wizarding population," she answered in the same quiet voice that made him want to yell at her. "Only five major families are buried in Arnos Vale. Mrs. Tonks… your aunt…" He scowled. "… thought it was best if she was there. There had been… incidents. After the Lestrange crypt had been vandalized… Mrs. Tonks asked the Ministry to seal off your family crypt. But she wanted to make sure –"

He turned away, his jaw clenched, even as she looked up at him sympathetically.

"Draco…"

He stood up sharply, taking a few steps away before whirling back and glaring down at Granger's nauseatingly gentle expression.

"So what's the plan?" he asked coolly. "Disillusionment Charm? Polyjuice? Or do you expect me to waltz into a Wizarding cemetery with a target on my back?"

He knew very well she had thought about these things, but at least his words had the benefit to replace her pity with an annoyed look.

"I can guarantee you none of the Wizarding families will be there today. Even the Ministry doesn't know exactly where the tomb is. Just pull on your hood," she replied dryly, standing up. "Is this picture enough for you to apparate?"

He gave her a curt nod and snatched the fir wand from where he had left it on the coffee table, turning on the spot before Granger could say anything else.

He immediately regretted it as he stumbled against the cold stone of the gothic tomb – not used to his newly recovered ability to apparate – and the yellow flowers on the kitchen counter flashed in his mind. He bent over, his hands on his knees, a ragged sort of breath escaping his chest. Through the stinging in his eyes, he could see dry weeds and twigs rising up to him, catching at the fabric of his trousers around his knees. The sight of the wand gripped in his hand made him come back to his senses, and he pushed off the moss-eaten granite to scan his surroundings for a presence, the wand raised before him. But except for the birds chirping in the canopy of branches high above him, the place felt utterly deserted, hollow.

The frozen ground beneath his feet was uneven and sloped down to a distant gravel drive he could make out beyond the line of the trees. Between the tall poplars and bare bushes all around him rose the tilted silhouettes of headstones, so covered in moss they almost faded into the untrimmed vegetation. A new kind of fear, an icy sort of dread that rose from the gut, was closing in on him as he stood still between the poplars. He realized he was shivering only when Granger apparating on the other side of the gothic tomb disrupted the environing silence.

Draco listened to the twigs snapping beneath her feet as she made her way around the tomb and stopped at his side. She was clumsily buttoning her coat, with her wand still in hand. The bouquet of narcissus was clasped under her arm, and she silently handed it to him with a somewhat distant look.

"This way," she said simply and started off between the trees.

More headstones peeked from behind the trees as they dived into the thick of Poplars Ridge, some of them so ancient the granite had been worn by the weather and the moss and ivy covering it. The fir wand cautiously kept at his side, Draco abandoned all hopes of discretion as their trudging through the dry undergrowth echoed loudly beneath the canopy of branches. The bushes and brownish ferns suddenly parted, and Granger came to a halt a few paces ahead of him, stopping at the edge of a large clearing with a high stone angel rising in its middle. It was little more trimmed than the woods around them but seemed to be the most recent part of the cemetery. The statue and the headstones peppered throughout the sea of tall grass were devoid of moss, and the wreaths of flowers adorning some of them – though frozen and shriveled – must have been brought no more than a couple of weeks before. Granger stood still for a moment, before slowly turning to him, her face oddly frozen.

"It's a bit farther," she said quietly as though the place suddenly made her keenly aware of her own voice. "The grave is unnamed, but you'll recognize it…"

She gestured vaguely past the statue of the angel, its solemn face tilted toward their side of the clearing, a stone arm raised like in beckoning, the spread wings slicing through the cascade of dulled sunlight streaming over the western treetops. He didn't dare look more than three steps ahead as he ventured through the murmuring grass, the dread now like a knife of ice stabbing his windpipe. Granger's footsteps rustled a few moments later somewhere behind him but she didn't follow, and he glimpsed her pacing slowly along the curved line of poplars out of the corner of his eye.

Names drifted past, some unknown, others he barely registered. _Fawcett… Gould… Leach… Another Fawcett… Lovegood…_ a wreath of blue orchids twined in the shape of a swan, half a dozen burnt out candle stubs – _Diggory…_ Draco stopped dead as the color hit his eye, almost at the roots of the poplars, invisible from where he had come, as it was on the directly opposite side of the clearing, hidden from view by the stone angel. The headstone, barely visible, was only engraved with the outline of a narcissus, similar to the dozens live flowers swaying around it – a patch of life so bright it seemed to absorb the pallid sunrays to radiate its own light.

But she wasn't there, was she. She wasn't resting. The bones beneath the ground were little more than a pile of rubble. And he wasn't there either. Just like her, he didn't belong in a graveyard, didn't belong anywhere any longer. The bouquet of narcissus fell from his limp hand and was swallowed by the weeds and ferns, the sunny petals extinguishing in their shadow. He turned somewhat helplessly on the spot, casting about for Granger, but she wasn't circling the clearing anymore. He backtracked a few steps, her figure coming into view as he rounded the stone angel. She was standing on the other side of the clearing with her back to him and her hands in her pockets, gazing at something on the ground.

Shoving his own frozen hands into the pockets of his trousers, he crossed the uneven circle of wildly growing grass, weaving his way between the headstones. Granger's blue coat looked flimsy and faded in the cold sunlight, its flaps billowing around her knees. But as he came close enough to see her profile, she herself seemed a pillar of steel, her spine locked, her chin held high, feet planted firmly on the ground. She stiffly turned her head at the sound of twigs snapping beneath his feet, and her gaze – a bleak, hollow stare – met his.

"Are you done?" she asked evenly. "You could use some more training with that wand. You know the place."

She was gone before he could even answer. He glanced at the nearest tombs with a puzzled frown and froze. The family name – repeated over and over on the surrounding headstones – was like a punch to the gut. And right there before the spot where Granger had been standing a moment earlier, the grass still flattened by her boots…

 _Ronald Bilius Weasley_

 _March 1, 1980 – May 2, 1998_

 **/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\/\\\**

The clouds of dust were still swirling from the curtains she had pulled apart in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place and she was kicking away with the tip of her foot the Doxy she had just killed, when the entrance door she had left unlocked clicked a floor below. A few moments later, the stairs creaked under Malfoy's footsteps. He halted in the doorway of the sitting room, his wand held at his side, and considered her with an unfathomable look. Without a word, Hermione turned away and strode to the dusty sofa, shrugging off her coat and flinging it across the dusty cushioned back.

"Granger…"

Malfoy groaned as she spun around and her nonverbal jinx made him stumble backwards into the carved doorframe.

"What the hell –" he snarled, barely having the time to deflect the next hex that went barreling at him.

"What is it, Malfoy? You wanted me to give you a heads-up?" snorted Hermione with a vicious chuckle.

She barely recognized her own voice as she advanced on him. Glowering at her, Malfoy straightened himself and smoothly blocked her third hex, before backing away a couple of steps.

"Frankly, I'm not in the mood to chase you up and down those stairs, so please choose another time for your jogging," she continued sweetly.

She talked if only to stop tasting the bile at the back of her throat and drown out the diffuse clamor and memories rising from the back of her mind… Malfoy's scowl slowly slid from his face to be replaced with an odd expression of cold indifference. He took another few steps back, shielding himself from her Stupefying Charm and not taking his steely eyes off her face. She was now on the threshold of the room, while he had retreated to the other side of the wide stairs landing. His wand was raised before him in a defensive manner, but he didn't seem to attack or to run away, even as she let several seconds pass before firing her next hex. His Shield Charm slid into place right on time, and he climbed the steps halfway to the second floor, before stopping again and turning to her as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

" _Flipendo! Stupefy!_ " she shouted.

She stormed after him, feeling herself baring her teeth, her throat getting raw and her voice high-pitched as she hurled hex after hex. They were sprinting up the stairs now, taking them two at a time, but Malfoy didn't veer from his path or apparate and kept deflecting her attacks with infuriating steadiness without ever striking back. She hated his mind-numbing passiveness, hated that stubborn, cowardly unwillingness to put up a fight even when cornered. She hated the silence of the Department of Mysteries, of her living room at night as she lay wide awake in her makeshift bed, of that tombstone back in Arnos Vale. She hated the incompetence of St Mungo's Healers, Kingsley's secrecy, and the special kind of betrayal she felt every morning at the absence of mail. She hated the daffodils growing in Winchcombe, the scent of beetroot soup, and the one of mold permeating the dusty rooms they passed. She wanted to blast the whole place away.

" _Confringo!_ " she shrieked, slashing her wand blindly, not even caring about the entire staircase collapsing beneath them.

" _Fuck you, Granger!_ " came Malfoy's angry shout as splintered wood, shredded wallpaper, and rotten plaster rained down on them and the stairs shook and screeched. She could hear a roar filling her ears, could see her own arm rising – white with dust and plaster as though covered in snow – as she senselessly readied to strike again. Somewhere on the landing above her, she vaguely registered Malfoy emerging from the debris, covered in white powder from head to toe.

" _Impedimenta!_ " he barked.

She felt the steps tip and give way beneath her feet, and then she was rolling across the landing below.

She didn't immediately feel the pain. The first wave had her pressing her forehead against the foul carpet. The second made her fingers curl and her body arch off the floor. Great, shuddering gasps that tore through her windpipe and made her clench her teeth until it hurt…

Andromeda was right. They were all dead here. And they didn't even have the wits to realize it, for who sees past the veil of routine, of normalcy? For even death becomes normalcy in time. Their triumph had insidiously turned into a nightmare and they had accepted it, blinded themselves, yearning to move on, to forget… And she was a traitor, too.

She didn't know at what point she had stopped breathing in the nauseating stench of the carpet, but when she opened her eyes, her tears were soaking into a black jumper and a pair of arms were wrapped around her like iron bands, holding her off the floor. Stone-faced, Malfoy kept staring at the wall opposite as she peered up at him through the burning in her eyes. _Traitor…_

"He never came back," she choked, spitting the words like venom. "Never returned to his tomb after the funeral."

 _Traitor, traitor, traitor…_

"And I didn't either."

Malfoy slowly looked down at her. She wasn't even sure he understood her words, as there wasn't any air left in her lungs for her vocal chords.

"And I don't know– I don't know how to tell Ginny he isn't coming back… And I don't know how to tell Nat there is no point in waiting anymore… And I'm failing… I'm failing everyone…"

A muscle twitched in Malfoy's cheek.

"I don't know if it matters," he said quietly, "but you didn't fail me, Granger."

A dull pain was spreading through her left forearm from her wrist, around which Malfoy's fingers were wrapped tightly – something dark leaking between them – holding together the gash a wood splinter had opened in her skin. She watched hazily the cuff of her sleeve drink in the crimson trickle, looked up at Malfoy's unreadable face. He didn't look aware of it, didn't look like he cared.

Not like he ever did. The cold shard of rage gouged deep into her mind. Because this mask of passiveness was calculated. Because in the end, she was just a means to an end, no matter how much he loathed her. The loathing only had to be kept at bay as long as he planned to take from her. But she could take from him too. She could wrench the truth, the ugliness, out of him. He owed her that truth on where they stood, where they had been standing since the very beginning – the natural, easy order of things. She could wrench it out of him because, in the end, she owned him, owned his very existence.

One unwavering reality in the freefall that was her life.

Her fingers fisted into the collar of his jumper like claws and tugged mercilessly. Her mouth, tightened into a thin line, slammed against his. _Push me away, you lying bastard… Go on, show me just how much I disgust you. And then grovel. Grovel because you need me, because you would whore yourself to get what you want._ She sensed the shift when he stopped holding her and his muscles merely locked, his shock being the only thing keeping him from letting her sag back to the floor. The salty water leaking from her eyes, her nose, was streaming down his chin now.

Lucidity came with the gulp of air. She didn't need to struggle to fall out of Malfoy's slackened arms. He didn't even stir as she held onto the wall to rise to her feet and staggered back, gazing in horror at his taut features, only his widened eyes moving as they tracked her movements.

… _Because she owned him… Grovel because you need me… You would whore yourself to get what you want…_ Shame like she had never felt slammed into her.

"I'm sorry…" No sound came out of her as she mouthed the words over and over. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

Malfoy was still kneeling on the debris-covered carpet as she haggardly walked down the stairs. She didn't hear him follow as she edged along the dim hallway of the ground floor, slipped out the entrance door, and disapparated into the eerily sunlit air.

* * *

 **A/N** : _ameles_ means 'unmindfulness' in Greek.

For those who haven't read the books or forgot, Nymphadora Tonks was killed by Bellatrix Lestrange.

All places mentioned in this chapter (cemeteries and cities) are existing places.

The only form of Transfiguration more difficult than Conjuration is human Transfiguration.


End file.
